1"7 


.  OF  LIBRARY, 


ROSEMARY    AND     RUE. 


Rosemary  and  Rue 


By  Amber 


Chicago  and  New  York: 

Rand,  McNally  &  Company, 

MDCCCXCVI. 


Copyright,  1896,  by  Rand,  McNally  &  Co. 


PREFACE. 


"Amber"  was  not  to  be  classed  with  any 
society  or  any  creed.  In  all  respects  she 
was  an  individual.  In  good-humored  con- 
tempt she  held  all  form,  and  with  deep  sin- 
cerity she  revered  all  simple  things.  She 
smiled  upon  error  and  frowned  upon  pre- 
tense. Her  life  was  largely  made  up  of 
impulse  and  sacrifice.  She  was  the  con- 
stant "victim"  of  her  own  generosity,  need- 
ing the  money  and  the  time  which  sympathy 
impelled  her  to  give  away.  She  was  so 
devoted  a  lover  of  the  moods  of  nature, 
noting  so  closely  the  changing  of  the  leaf 
or  a  new  note  sounded  by  the  whimsical 
wind,  that  her  spirit  itself  must  once  have 
been  an  October  day.  Year  after  year  she 
toiled,  and  her  reward  was  not  money,  but  a 
letter  from  the  bedside  of  the  invalid,  telling 
of  a  heart  that  had  been  lightened,  of  a  care 
that  had  been  driven  from  the  door.  None  of 
the  newspaper  writers  of  Chicago  was  more 


2125439 


6 

popular.  Another  column  told  the  news  of 
the  day;  her  column  held  the  news  of  the 
heart.  Her  best  thoughts  and  warmest 
fancies  are  scattered  throughout  her  prose. 
Her  verses  are  pleasant,  and  many  of  them 
are  striking,  but  meter  often  chained  her 
fancy.  But  some  of  her  unchained  fancies, 
poetic  conceits  in  the  guise  of  prose,  will 
live  long  after  the  clasp,  holding  the  preten- 
tious verses  of  a  society  laureate,  shall  have 
been  eaten  loose  by  the  constant  nibble  of 
time. 

When  a  church  was  crowded  with  friends, 
come  to  bid  "Amber"  good-bye,  a  great 
thinker,  a  writer  who  knows  the  meaning 
of  toil,  said  that  she  had  succeeded  by  the 
force  and  the  industry  of  her  genius.  And 
so  she  had.  For  others,  influence  searched 
out  easy  places,  but  "Amber"  found  her  own 
hard  place  and  maintained  it,  struggling 
alone.  Her  words  were  for  the  poor  and 
the  sorrowful,  and  they  could  but  give  a 
blessing.  But  in  the  end,  a  blessing  from 
the  poor  may  be  brighter  than  the  silver  of 
the  rich.  Opie  Read. 


Rosemary  and  Rue. 


I  WONDER. 

I  wonder,  if  I  died  to-night, 
And  you  should  hear  to-morrow, 

You'd  mourn  to  think  this  one  dear  friend 
Had  bid  good-bye  to  sorrow. 

I  wonder,  if  you  saw  a  bird, 

The  hunter's  dart  outflying, 
You'd  lure  it  back  with  loving  word 

To  danger,  pain,  and  dying. 

I  wonder,  if  you  saw  a  rose, 
Plucked  quick  in  June's  surrender, 

You'd  wish  it  back  upon  the  bough, 
To  wither  in  November. 

I  wonder,  if  you  watched  the  moon, 
The  tempest's  rack  outstripping, 

You'd  grieve  to  see  its  silver  prow 
In  cloudless  ether  dipping. 

I  woader,  if  you  heard  a  thrush 

Laugh  out  amid  the  clover, 
You'd  weep  because  its  cage  door  oped — 

Its  captive  days  were  over. 

I  wonder,  if,  some  happy  day, 
When  you  have  found  your  haven, 

You'll  mourn  to  find  this  one  dear  friend 
Had  been  so  long  in  heaven. 


When  I  die  bury  me  by  the  sea.  Let  my 
first  hundred  years  in  the  spirit  be  spent  on 
a  sunny  sand-bank  watching  the  sapphire 
tides  break  over  a  bluff  of  lifted  rocks. 
What  is  any  earthly  trouble  but  a  dissolving 
dream,  when  one  may  bury  the  face  in  gold- 
en moss  and  sniff  the  salt  spume  of  the  sea! 
Over  the  blue  verge  of  the  horizon  lies 
Spain,  and  I  build  its  castles  hourly  here  in 
my  heart.  A  distant  echo  rings  in  my  ears 
of  trucks  driven  over  stony  streets,  of  the 
crack  of  the  cabman's  whip  and  the  shout 
of  profane  teamsters,  but  the  only  semblance 
to  cruel  driver  and  jaded  beast  of  burden 
seen  in  the  seaside  paradise  of  which  I  write 
is  a  fat  huckster  and  a  still  fatter  donkey 
who  draws  the  large  man  where  he  (the 
donkey)  listeth.  Here  on  this  lifted  moor- 
land, if  one  wishes  to  go  anywhere  he  rises 
up  and  goes  forth  on  a  carpet  of  crimson 
moss  and  yellow  grass  and  is  driven  by  a 
chariot  of  untired  winds.  Behind  us  are 
miles  of  purple  moss  swept  by  ragged 
shreds  of  September  fog,  and  musical,  here 
and  there,  with  bells  of  grazing  herds ;  while 
before  us,  behind  us,  and  all  around  us 


9 

stretches  the  boundless,  unfathomable  and 
mysterious  sea. 


Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  island  of  Avilion? 
That  enchanted  place  where  "falls  not  hail, 
or  rain,  nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly," 
whose  orchard  lands  and  bowery  hollows 
lie  lapsed  in  summer  seas?  I  found  it  one 
day  when  I  was  sailing  on  Casco  bay  in  a 
boat  hardly  bigger  than  a  peanut  shell.  Ten- 
nyson found  it  long  ago  in  a  dream,  and 
to  it  he  sent  the  good  King  Arthur  that  he 
might  "heal  him  of  his  grievous  wound" 
within  the  balm  of  its  heavenly  peace.  But 
I  found  it  in  reality,  and  to  it  I  took  a  care- 
worn lady  and  a  work-weary  brain,  that  I 
might  perchance  renew  under  its  sunny 
spell  a  strength  that  was  well-nigh  spent. 
I  found  my  island  under  another  name,  to 
be  sure,  but  I  rechristened  it  within  the  first 
hour  of  my  landing.  It  is  not  the  place, 
my  dear,  for  featherheads  and  butterflies, 
this  island  of  Avilion.  It  is  not  the  place  for 
the  descendants  of  Flora  McFlimsy  to  go 
with  their  new  gowns  and  their  French 
heels.  All  such  would  vote  my  little  island 


10 

a  bore,  and  run  up  a  flag  for  the  first  in- 
land-bound steamer  to  put  into  port  and 
carry  them  away.  It  has  no  ball-room,  no 
promenade-hall  under  cover,  no  brass  band, 
no  merry-go-round,  but  instead  it  has 
meadow-lands  that  are  brimful  of  bird 
songs;  it  has  wild  strawberries  that  bring 
their  ruby  wine  to  the  very  lips  of  the  laugh- 
ing sea;  it  has  such  sunsets  as  visit  the 
dreams  of  poets  and  the  skies  of  Italy;  it 
has  great  rocks  that  are  woven  all  over  with 
webs  of  wild  convolvulus  vine,  whose  airy 
goblets  of  pink  and  blue  hold  nectar  for  the 
booming  bee  to  sip;  and  it  has  marguerite 
daisies  by  the  tens  of  thousands,  and  wild 
roses  that  carry  the  tint  of  your  baby's  palm 
and  the  honey  of  sugar-sweet  dew  within 
the  inclosure  of  their  small  curled  cup.  It 
is  hardly  bigger  than  a  Cunarder,  this  little 
Chebeague  island,  whose  name  I  changed  to 
Avilion,  and  from  wave-washed  keel  to  flow- 
ery bowsprit  the  eye  never  lights  upon  a 
defilement  or  a  stain.  It  is  the  only  place 
in  all  my  wanderings  where  I  never  found 
a  peanut  shell  nor  a  tin  can  thrown  out  to 
defile  nature's  beauty. 

There  was  not  a  single  bad  odor  on  my 
island  during  the  whole  ten  days  of  my,  tar- 


rying,  and  I  am  told  by  those  who  are  old 
inhabitants  that  such  a  thing  never  was 
known  to  it.  A  soft  wind  is  always  blow- 
ing, but  the  only  merchandise  it  carries  is 
wild  thyme  perfume  and  the  fragrant  airs 
that  waft  from  meadow-lands  and  old-fash- 
ioned gardens  full  of  spice  pinks  and  cinna- 
mon roses.  Now  and  then  a  hunter's  fog 
slips  the  leash  of  its  viewless  hounds  and 
with  noiseless  "halloo"  scours  the  island  for 
the  prey  it  tracks  but  seems  never  to  corral. 
Now  and  then  a  sudden  tumult  seizes  the 
tides  that  climb  and  fall  on  the  shiny  rocks 
and  the  air  is  full  of  the  throb  of  soft  drums 
and  the  music  of  flutes  that  are  beat  and 
blown  a  moment,  then  die  away  as  quick- 
ly as  they  came,  like  a  strolling  band  that 
marches  through  a  village  street,  then  over 
the  hills  and  far  away.  Now  and  then  a 
troop  of  crows  rise  silently  from  out  the 
shadow  of  the  pines  and  go  sailing  between 
the  lazy  eyes  that  follow  and  the  sun,  until, 
settling  down  upon  some  meadow  stacked 
with  new-cut  hay,  they  break  into  clamorous 
laughter  that  taunts  you  with  its  shrill  de- 
rision. Always,  from  dawn  to  dewfall,  the 
world  about  little  Chebeague  is  full  of  swal- 
lows that  dart  and  soar  and  flit  like  shadows. 


They  seldom  sing,  and  yet  the  few  notes 
they  thread  upon  the  air  sparkle  like  dia- 
monds where  they  fall.  Some  strange  bird, 
with  a  low,  sleepy  song  like  the  crooning 
of  a  child  that  is  half  asleep,  or  like  a  shep- 
herd boy's  pipe  idly  blown  beneath  the  noon- 
day willows,  is  always  haunting  the  groves 
of  Avilion  with  an  undiscovered  presence. 
I  have  spent  hours  looking  for  him,  yet  nev- 
er found  him.  Sometimes  I  have  been  led 
to  half  believe  the  fellow  exists  only  in  the 
fancy  of  a  spellbound  idler  like  you  and  me. 

Just  at  sunset  a  little  feathered  violinist 
of  the  island  whips  out  his  fiddle  and  draws 
the  bow  so  delicately  across  its  vibrant 
strings,  while  the  golden  sun  slips  tran- 
quilly beneath  the  tinted  waters  of  Casco 
bay,  that  the  soul  of  the  listener  is  fairly 
attenuated  like  a  high  C  diminuendo  with 
the  spell  of  so  much  beauty.  I  don't  know 
the  name  of  the  bird  either,  but  he  is  going 
to  sing  for  us  all  in  heaven  later  on.  Such 
performers  do  not  end  all  here  any  more 
than  Beethoven  did. 

It  was  my  custom  during  the  time  I  spent 
at  Little  Chebeague  to  devote  the  entire  day 
to  strolling  or  lying  at  length  upon  the 
rocks — 


<**tfr     ltt**       13 


Nothing  but  me  'twixt  earth  and  sky; 
An  emerald  and  an  amethyst  stone, 
Hung  and  hollowed  for  me  alone. 

I  grew  to  love  the  solitude  with  all  my 
heart,  and  the  thought  of  returning  to  the 
mainland  with  its  jargon  and  its  bustle  was 
like  the  thought  of  tophet  to  the  poor  little 
peri  for  whom  the  gate  of  paradise  had 
swung.  Sometimes  I  would  board  the  small 
boat  that  two  or  three  times  a  day  threads 
in  and  out  of  the  blue  water-way  and  visit 
adjacent  islands  hardly  less  beautiful  than 
my  chosen  home. 

There  is  Long  Island,  far  more  beautiful 
by  reason  of  its  East  End,  where  as  yet  the 
tide  of  a  full-fledged  summer  resort  has  not 
come.    There  is  an  old-fashioned  country 
roadhouse,  such  as  we  knew  before  the  land- 
scape  gardener   and   the   boulevard  fknd 
were  turned  loose  upon  our  rural  towns.  To 
follow  their  windings  is  heaven  enough  for 
me.    A  fringe  of  buttercups  to  fence  the, 
way,  thickets  of  underbrush  to  darken  the  \ 
near  distance,  constant  little  ups  and  downs  * 
where  the  road  slips  into  hollow  to  follow 
the  call  of  a  romping  brook  or  climb  a  hill 
to  watch  for  the  sea.    Wintergreen  berries 
and   russet  patches   everywhere,   and   the 


14 

snow  of  blackberry  bushes  in  bloom  far  as 
the  eye  can  travel. 

"There  is  an  old-time  rail  fence!"  cried  a 
visitor  from  the  booming  west  one  day ;  "my 
God,  let  me  get  out  and  touch  it!  I  haven't 
seen  anything  but  barbed  wire  since  I  left 
New  England !"  And  he  did  get  out  of  the 
buckboard  in  which  he  was  driving  and 
chipped  away  a  big  brown  fence  sliver  as  a 
memento.  These  roads  I  am  talking  about 
lead  nowhere  in  particular.  They,  as  often 
as  not,  end  in  a  fisherman's  back  dooryard, 
but  they  are  sweet  as  a  young  girl's  caprice 
while  they  last. 

One  day  we  strolled  across  one  of  the 
islands  and  found  a  battlement  of  rocks  on 
the  seaside  that  it  would  have  taken  a  solid 
month  to  explore.  Oh,  there  was  enough 
on  the  bar  at  ebb  tide  at  Avilion  to  while 
away  an  age  of  idle  time. 

Sometimes  we  took  it  into  our  heads  to 
ride.  Then  the  choice  lay  between  Charlie 
the  Christian — so  named  for  his  good  be- 
havior and  gentle  ways — and  the  one  road- 
ster the  island  produced,  a  nag  in  the  rough, 
who  held  his  head  high  and  cavorted  with 
the  stride  of  a  jamboreeing  boy. 

The    choice    made,    the   hour   must   be 


15 


watched  to  catch  the  low  tide  over  to  Big 
Chebeague,  for  there  are  no  wagon  roads  in 
Avilion.  Six  hours  of  safety,  as  to  the  low 
water  mark,  is  the  limit  of  one  day's  riding, 
and  much  can  be  done  in  the  way  of  riding 
in  a  half-dozen  hours'  time.  A  spin  across 
the  bar,  the  climbing  of  a  rocky  road,  a  sweep 
of  seaward-facing  pike,  with  dips  into  ferny 
hollows  and  ascents  to  pine-crowned  bluffs, 
make  the  trip  worth  recording,  and  if  to  the 
exhilaration  of  the  ride  you  add  a  dismount 
now  and  then  to  gather  wintergreen  and 
pick  roses,  with  a  loiter  through  a  church- 
yard where  many  Hamiltons,  both  pre- 
Adamite  and  ante-historic,  are  sleeping  the 
sleep  of  the  just,  you  have  the  whole  mean- 
ing of  an  afternoon  outing  on  Big  Che- 
beague. 

Every  evening  after  supper  there  was  a 
pilgrimage  to  the  west  side  of  the  island, 
not  to  be  dispensed  with  by  descendants  of 
those  remnant  tribes  that  once  worshiped 
the  sun.  Ranging  from  north  to  south  as 
far  as  the  eye  can  sweep,  from  westward, 
fronting  little  Chebeague,  lies  Casco  bay,  the 
loveliest  bit  of  water  in  all  the  world.  I  say 
unhesitatingly  the  loveliest,  because  I  do 
not  believe  that  Naples,  nor  Sorrento,  nor 


any  far-famed  Italian  watering-place  can 
match  the  coast  of  Maine  for  beauty.  Into 
this  bay,  like  petals  from  a  wind-shaken 
blossom  tree,  are  dropped  hundreds  of 
islands.  Far  to  the  west  the  White  moun- 
tains melt  upon  the  horizon  in  airy  outline 
of  blue,  and  over  all  each  day  is  repeated 
the  ancient  miracle  of  the  sun's  decline. 
Sometimes  a  single  cloud,  like  a  tomb,  re- 
ceives the  bright  embodiment  of  day  and 
hides  it  from  our  sight  behind  such  draperies 
as  orient  never  wrought  nor  monarch 
dreamed.  Sometimes  this  fair  god  lies  at 
length  upon  a  bier  of  purple  porphyry,  while 
flakes  of  crushed  gems  strew  his  couch  with 
rainbow  dust,  arid  all  the  air  is  full  of  rose- 
red  censers,  edged  with  gold.  Sometimes  he 
drops  below  the  verge,  holding  to  the  last 
a  wine  cup  brimmed  with  sparkling  vintage 
that  spills  and  trickles  down  the  hills.  Some- 
times he  returns  in  an  afterglow,  as  the  dead 
come  back  to  us  in  dreams,  the  tenderer  and 
the  sweeter  for  their  second  coming.  How- 
ever the  sun  may  set  in  Avilion,  each  set- 
ting is  the  most  beautiful  and  best  to  be 
desired. 


I  heard  someone  bewailing  the  death  of  a 
friend  the  other  day.  The  staff  on  which  he 
had  leaned,  the  bread  which  had  ministered 
to  his  needs,  the  very  light  that  had  filled  his 
eyes  seemed  caught  away,  and  he  mourned 
as  one  for  whom  there  was  no  comfort  pos- 
sible. I  saw  a  mother  leaning  above  an 
empty  crib,  whose  dainty  pillow  no  nestling 
head  should  ever  press  again.  I  marked  the 
terrible  yet  voiceless  grief  that  ate  at  a  be- 
reaved father's  self-control,  until  no  wind- 
blown reed  was  ever  so  shorn  of  self-reliant 
strength.  I  saw  a  wife  whose  love  had  sunk 
within  the  grave  where  her  young  husband 
was  laid,  as  the  sun  sets  within  a  cloud  of 
stormy  night.  I  saw  an  old  man  bow  his 
snowy  head  because  the  faithful  one  whose 
hand  had  lain  in  his  for  more  than  fifty 
years  had  vanished  from  his  sight  forever. 
I  heard  a  little  child  lamenting  at  bed-time 
the  lullaby  song  which  its  dead  mother's 
tender  lips  should  never  sing  again.  But 
sadder  than  all  these  things,  more  tragical 
than  any  death  which  merely  picks  the  blos- 
som of  life  and  bears  it  onward  to  heaven, 
as  the  gardener  plucks  the  choicest  rose  to 
grace  some  festival  of  joy,  is  the  scene  when 

a  trusted  friendship  dies;  when  faith  which 
a 


18 

has  endured  the  test  of  years  gives  up  the 
breath  of  loyal  life  and  sinks  to  hopeless 
unawakened  death.  Never  think  that  you 
have  shed  your  bitterest  tears  until  you 
have  stood  at  such  a  death-bed.  Think  not 
the  measurement  of  any  mortal  grief  has 
been  found  until  you  have  sunk  the  plum- 
met-line of  such  a  sorrow.  That  grave  shall 
never  burst  its  sheath  to  let  the  soul  of 
friendship's  betrayal  free,  like  a  lily  on  the 
Easter  air.  That  door  shall  never  swing 
like  the  bars  of  a  cage  to  let  a  murdered 
faith  flash  forth  like  the  plume  of  a  singing 
bird  to  seek  the  stars.  Over  the  grave  of  a 
dead  and  buried  trust  no  resurrection-note 
can  ever  sound  like  a  bugle-call  across  the 
dewy  hills  to  rouse  the  sleeper  from  his 
couch.  God  pity  all  who  linger  by  the 
heaped-up  mound  where  love's  forgotten 
dreams  lie  buried,  and  grant  oblivion  as 
the  only  surcease  for  their  bitter  sorrow. 


The  days  and  nights  swing  equally  upon 
the  golden  balance  of  time.  The  year  is 
whitening  with  its  crop  of  frost-blossoms 
from  which  no  harvest-home  has  ever  yet 


ant*     u*»       19 


been  called.  Like  an  unwritten  page,  the 
new  year  lies  before  us  in  untrodden  fields 
of  shining  snow.  God  grant  the  footsteps 
of  Death  be  not  the  first  to  track  the  un- 
broken path  that  lies  before  us.  May  joy 
and  peace  and  love,  like  the  roots  of  the 
violets  under  the  snow,  quicken  and  blos- 
som for  all  of  us  as  the  year  advances,  and 
may  our  progress  be,  like  January's,  right 
steadily  onward  unto  June! 


As  I  write  there  is  a  sudden  break  in  the 
hush  of  night,  and  faint  and  clear  and  sweet 
upon  the  listening  ear  falls  the  sound  of 
"taps"  from  the  camp  in  Fort  Sheridan 
woods.  I  drop  my  pencil  and  listen  to  it, 
as  I  always  do,  with  almost  a  spirit  of  rev- 
erent awe.  The  hard  day's  work  is  done, 
the  time  for  rest  has  come,  and  over  all  the 
busy  camp  silence  falls  like  the  shadow  of 
a  brooding  wing.  The  new  moon,  half  hid- 
den by  drifting  clouds  sends  a  rippling  play 
of  silver  through  the  woodbine  leaves,  and 
from  the  top  of  the  maple  tree,  a  thrush 
dreams  forth  a  bar  of  liquid  music  in  its 
sleep.  All  the  world  is  going  to  sleep,  and 


20         Q&emav     anfc 


God  grant,  say  I,  that  when  the  time  for  the 
final  good-night  has  come  for  you  and  for 
me  the  call  for  "taps,"  blown  from  some 
celestial  bugle  the  other  side  the  mystic  gate 
may  fall  as  sweetly  upon  our  ears  and  find 
us  as  ready  to  sink  to  slumber. 


Did  you  ever  hunt  for  eggs  in  a  haymow? 
If  you  did  you  can  remember  just  how,  with 
bated  breath,  you  crept  through  the  fra- 
grant glooms  of  the  old  barn  and  searched 
the  dusty  place  for  nests.  You  can  recall, 
perhaps,  the  shaft  of  sunlight  that  broke 
through  the  crevice  of  the  door  and  showed 
you  old  speckle-top  in  her  corner.  You  can 
hear  again  her  furious  cackle  when  you  dis- 
lodged her  from  her  nest  and  gathered  the 
warm  eggs  she  had  hovered  under  her 
wings.  You  remember  the  excitement  of 
the  search  and  the  perfection  of  content 
which  settled  within  your  soul  as  you  gath- 
ered the  basketful  of  milk-white  eggs  upon 
your  arm  and  picked  your  way  down  the 
steep  ladder  which  led  to  the  main  floor  and 
"all  out  doors."  Scarcely  any  excitement 
or  exhilaration  of  later  years  can  compare 


21 


with  the  joy  of  hen's-nest  hunting  when  you 
were  young. 

Did  you  ever  go  berrying?  With  a  tin 
pail  swinging  from  your  wrist  and  your  old- 
est gown  upon  your  back,  have  you  climbed 
the  hill,  jumped  the  fences  and  sought  the 
side-hill  pasture  where  the  blackberries 
grew  purple  in  the  shade?  Can  you  recall 
much,  in  all  the  years  that  thread  between 
that  happy  time  and  this,  which  can  trans- 
cend the  pleasure  of  those  wildwood  tramps? 
Even  now  I  seem  to  fix  my  eyes  upon  a 
clump  of  bushes  by  the  old  rail  fence.  They 
are  domed  high  with  verdure  and  show 
dusky  hollows  underneath,  where,  my 
skilled  eye  tells  me,  lurk  spoils  fit  for  Bac- 
chus and  all  his  nymphs.  I  part  the  leaves, 
a  snowy  moth  flutters  out  of  the  green  dusk 
and  wavers  like  a  snowflake  in  the  warm, 
sweet  air.  I  carefully  reach  my  hand  away 
inside  the  fairy  bower  of  crumpled  leaf  and 
twisted  vine  and  draw  it  forth  purple  with 
the  juice  of  overripe  berries  that  dissolve  at 
a  touch.  With  these  I  fill  my  pail,  and  all 
too  often,  I  blush  to  own  if,  my  mouth  also, 
until  twilight  sends  me  home  saturated  with 
sunshine,  late  clover  blooms  and  berry 
juice. 


22         to&cmavu  imfc 


Ah,  my  dear,  all  this  was  fun  while  it 
lasted,  but  there  is  a  more  exciting  quest 
than  hunting  eggs  or  finding  berries,  in 
which  we  all  of  us  engage  as  the  years  of 
our  mortal  pilgrimage  go  hurrying  by.  It 
is  the  search  for  happiness  —  a  search  we 
never  give  up  nor  grow  too  old  to  maintain. 
Forgetting  the  disappointments  and  the 
satieties  of  the  dead  years,  we  look  forward 
to  the  new  as  the  hidden  nestfull  of  un- 
chipped  shells  of  fresh  experience  and  un- 
tried delights.  God  bless  us  all,  and  pros- 
per us  to  find  the  eggs  and  the  berries  before 
we  die.  Perhaps  the  service  of  love  we  do 
others  shall  prove  the  bush  that  bears  the 
sweetest  and  the  ripest  clusters,  and  the  nest- 
full  that  shall  develop  the  whitest  store  of  all 
life's  opportunities. 


A  genuine  mother  could  no  more  raise  a 
bad  boy  into  a  bad  man  than  a  robin  could 
raise  a  hawk.  When  I  say  "genuine  mother" 
I  mean  something  more  than  a  mother  who 
prays  with  her  boy,  and  teaches  him  Bible 
texts,  and  sends  him  to  Sunday-school.  All 
those  things  are  good  and  indispensable  as 


23 


far  as  they  go,  but  there  is  a  lot  more  to  do 
to  train  a  boy  besides  praying  with  him, 
just  as  there  are  things  necessary  to  the  cul- 
tivation of  a  garden  besides  reading  a  man- 
ual. To  succeed  with  roses  and  corn  one 
must  prune,  weed  and  hoe  a  great  deal.  To 
make  a  boy  into  a  pure  man,  a  mother  must 
do  more  than  pray.  She  must  live  with  him 
in  the  sense  of  comrade  and  closest  friend. 
She  must  stand  by  him  in  time  of  tempta- 
tion as  the  pilot  sticks  to  the  wheel  when 
rapids  are  ahead.  She  must  never  desert 
him  to  go  off  to  superintend  outside  duties 
any  more  than  the  engineer  deserts  his  post 
and  goes  into  the  baggage  car  to  read  up 
on  engineering,  when  his  train  is  pounding 
across  the  country  at  forty  miles  an  hour. 


A  LITTLE  GOLDENHEAD. 

Gay  little  Goldenhead  lived  within  a  town 
Full  of  busy  bobolinks,  flitting  up  and  down, 
Pretty  neighbor  buttercups,  cosy  auntie  clovers, 
And  shy  groups  of  daisies,  all  whispering  like 
lovers. 

A  town  that  was  builded  on  the  borders  of  a 
stream, 


24 


By  the  loving  hands  of  nature  when  she  woke 

from  winter's  dream; 
Sunbeams  for  the  workingmen  taking  turns  with 

showers, 
Rearing  fairy  houses  of  fairy  grass  and  flowers. 

Crowds  of  talking  bumblebees,  rushing  up  and 

down, 

Wily  little  brokers  of  this  busy  little  town, 
Bearing  bags  of  gold  dust,  always  in  a  hurry, 
Fussy  bits  of  gentlemen,  full  of  fret  and  flurry. 

Gay  little  Goldenhead  fair  and  fairer  grew, 
Fed  on  flecks  of  sunshine,  and  sips  of  balmy  dew, 
Swinging  on  her  slender  foot  all  the  happy  day, 
Chattering  with  bobolinks,  gossips  of  the  May. 

Underneath  her  lattice  on  starry  summer  eves, 
By  and  by  a  lover  came,  with  his  harp  of  leaves; 
Wooed  and  won  the  maiden,  tender,  sweet  and 

shy, 
For  a  little  cloud  home  he  was  building  in  the 

sky. 

And  one  breezy  morning,  on  a  steed  of  might, 
He  bore  his  little  Goldenhead  out  of  mortal 

sight; 

But  still  her  gentle  spirit,  a  puff  of  airy  down, 
Wanders  through  the  mazes  of  that  busy  little 

town. 


Where  shall  we  go  to  find  the  fit  symbol 
of  Easter?    To  the  encyclopedia  that  we 


25 

may  post  ourselves  as  to  word  derivations 
and  root  meanings?  As  well  send  a  child 
to  a  botanist  to  find  the  meaning  of  a  rose ! 
To  fitly  understand  the  true  significance 
of  Easter  time,  find  some  slope  in  early 
April  that  the  sun  has  found  a  few  short 
days  before  you.  Lay  your  ear  close  to 
the  ground  that  you  may  hear  the  fine, 
soft  stir  within  the  bosom  of  the  warm 
earth.  Note  how  the  mold  is  filling  with 
its  new  birth  of  flowers.  There  is  not  a 
covert  in  all  the  awakening  woods  that  has 
not  a  little  nestling  head  hidden  behind  the 
dead  leaves.  The  breath  of  a  sleeping  child 
is  not  more  peaceful  than  the  sway  of  the 
wind  flower  upon  its  downy  stem.  The  flush 
on  a  baby's  cheek  is  not  more  delicate  than 
the  tint  of  each  gossamer  petal.  To  what 
shall  we  liken  the  grass  blades  already 
springing  up  along  the  loosened  water 
ways?  To  fairy  bowmen,  led  by  Robin 
Hood's  ghost  through  winding  ways  from 
forest  on  to  the  sparkling  sea.  To  what 
shall  we  liken  the  violet  buds  spread 
thick  beneath  the  country  children's  feet? 
To  constant  thoughts  of  God  that  bloom 
even  in  the  grave's  dark  dust.  To  what 
shall  we  liken  the  twinkling  leaves  that  shine 


26 

in  the  dim  depths  of  the  woods?  To  lights 
at  sea,  that  tell  some  fleet  is  sailing  into 
port.  To  what  shall  we  liken  the  shy  un- 
folding of  the  lilac  buds?  To  the  poise  of 
a  slender  maiden  who  leans  from  out  her 
lattice  to  hearken  to  a  lover's  song.  To 
what  shall  we  liken  the  cowslip's  valiant 
gold?  To  the  shining  of  a  contented  spirit 
with  a  humble  home.  To  what  shall  we 
liken  the  brooding  sky  and  the  warmth  of 
the  all-loving  sun?  To  the  potency  of  a 
gentle  nature  intent  on  doing  good,  and 
the  yearning  of  a  tender  heart  to  bless  and 
save.  Is  there  a  nook  so  dark  and  forbid- 
ding that  the  beautiful  Easter  sunshine  can- 
not enter  and  woo  forth  a  flower?  Is  there 
a  rock  so  impervious  that  the  April  wind 
may  not  find  lodgment  for  a  seed  in  some 
crevice,  and  there  uplift  a  bannered  blos- 
som? Is  there  a  cold,  resentful  bank  where- 
in the  late  snow  lingers  that  shall  not  finally 
cast  off  its  disdainful  ice  and  flash  into  ver- 
dure in  response  to  the  patient  shining  of 
the  sun?  Is  there  a  grave  in  all  the  land 
so  new  and  desolate  that  Easter  time  cannot 
find  a  violet  among  its  clods  and  paint  a 
rainbow  within  the  tears  that  rain  above  it? 
To  nature's  lovers,  then,  as  to  the  truly 


27 


Christian  heart,  the  significance  of  Easter  is 
found  in  the  reviving  garden  and  in  the 
awakening  woods.  It  means  resurrection 
after  death,  blossom  time  after  the  bareness 
of  woe,  the  cuckoo's  cry  after  the  silence  of 
songless  days,  and  the  smile  of  a  pitying  All- 
Father  after  the  orphan  time  of  the  soul's 
bereavement  and  seeming  desertion. 

Another  blessed  thought  to  be  gained  in 
the  contemplation  of  nature's  sure  awaken- 
ing from  the  long  lethargy  of  her  winter's 
sleep  is  that,  however  fearful  we  imay  be  that 
death's  reign  shall  be  eternal,  as  constant 
as  day  dawn  after  midnight,  or  shining  after 
storm,  shall  be  the  Easter  of  the  soul.  We 
do  not  need  to  pray  for  April;  it  comes. 
Nor  do  we  need  to  pray  for  release  from 
the  first  dark  dominion  of  fear  and  dread 
when  our  beloved  are  snatched  from  our 
arms.  Such  experience  is  only  the  transient 
reign  of  winter  in  the  heart,  while  yet  the 
soft  wing  of  April  stirs  upon  the  horizon's 
misty  verge  and  the  promise  of  violets  is  in 
the  lingering  darkness  of  the  air.  Remem- 
ber this  :  The  same  power  that  sends  us  No- 
vember is  planning  an  April  to  follow,  and 
out  of  the  snowfall  evolves  the  whiteness  of 
the  annunciation  lily. 


28 

It  has  always  seemed  to  me  that,  beauti- 
ful as  Christ's  birthday  ought  to  be  and 
full  of  tender  significance  as  we  may  make 
the  hallowed  Christmas  time,  a  deeper  ten- 
derness attaches  to  these  Easter  days.  The 
Sinless  One  had  lived  out  the  span  of  his 
mortal  years;  he  had  suffered  and  been  be- 
trayed ;  had  struggled  through  Gethsemane, 
up  to  the  thorn-crowned  heights  of  Calvary, 
and  yet,  through  all,  carried  the  whiteness 
of  a  saintly  soul,  to  cast  its  dying  petals, 
like  a  white  rose,  wind-shaken  yet  yielding 
perfume  even  in  death,  in  the  utterance  of 
that  prayer  for  universal  forgiveness,  the 
most  wonderful  that  ever  ascended  from 
earth  to  heaven — "Father,  forgive  them,  for 
they  know  not  what  they  do!"  The  song 
that  ushered  in  the  birthtime  of  those  sanc- 
tified years  was  an  invocation  of  peace  and 
good  will,  beneath  which  the  morning  stars 
were  shaken  like  banners  before  the  oncom- 
ing of  a  glorious  prince,  but  the  prayer  that 
ascended  from  Calvary  was  the  plea  of  a 
betrayed  and  anguished  soul  for  universal 
charity  and  forgiveness  from  God  to  man. 
Let  us  rejoice,  then,  when  Christmas  days 
bring  gladness  to  our  hearts  and  homes,  but 
let  us  forgive  and  bless  when  Easter  lays 


29 


its  stainless  lily  at  our  feet.  There  is  con- 
stant need  for  charity  and  forgiveness  in  a 
world  so  full  of  self-blinded  and  ignorant 
evil-doers.  They  do  not  always  know  what 
they  do,  these  rude  and  riotous  betrayers 
of  Christ;  and  all  the  more  need,  then,  for 
compassion,  and  that  divine  pity  that,  even 
from  the  cross,  could  invoke  heaven's  par- 
doning love. 

If  you  have  a  friend  who  has  wronged 
you,  forgive  him  to-day,  for  Christ's  sweet 
sake.  If  you  have  a  boy  who  has  gone 
astray,  reach  out  your  arm  and  win  him 
back,  while  yet  the  Easter  violets  glow  upon 
the  chancel  rail.  If  you  have  a  daughter 
who  has  been  undutiful,  take  her  in  your 
arms  and  ask  God  to  forgive  you  both  — 
you  for  your  lack  of  sympathy,  as  well  as 
her  for  her  waywardness.  So  shall  you  un- 
derstand the  meaning  of  Easter,  the  resur- 
rection time  of  love,  the  fulfillment  of  its 
promise  from  out  the  icy  negation  of  the 
grave. 

A  few  thoughts  about  death  before  we 
turn  to  other  symbolizations  of  the  season. 
It  is  all  a  mistake,  it  seems  to  me,  to  make 
death  a  menace  and  a  dread  in  the  minds 
of  the  young.  Does  the  farmer  go  forth 


30         a#*nmvj  tmfr 


with  tears  to  plant  the  seed  for  the  com- 
ing harvest?  Does  the  scientist  mourn 
above  the  chrysalis  that  lets  a  rare  butterfly 
go  free?  Does  the  navigator  rebel  when  a 
bark  that  has  been  tempest-tossed  and 
storm-driven  enters  port?  Teach  the  chil- 
dren that  death  is  all  that  makes  life  endu- 
rable; that  it  is  the  sheaf  of  ripened  wheat, 
or  the  budding  flower,  plucked  from  the 
earth's  dark  mold;  that  it  is  the  flight  of 
the  bird,  the  home  stretch  of  the  yacht. 
We  love  each  other,  but  what  is  it  that  makes 
human  love  any  nobler  than  the  chirruping 
of  birds  if  not  its  duration?  And  it  is  only 
death  that  makes  our  loves  immortal.  Time 
enthrals  them  with  fear  and  environs  them 
with  alarms  ;  death  lifts  them  into  the  region 
of  eternal  joy.  Take  away  the  reality  of  our 
faith  in  the  life  to  come  and  Easter  would 
mean  no  more  to  us  than  it  means  to  the 
browsing  cattle  that  munch  the  violet  buds 
and  trample  the  bright  promises  of  the  year 
under  foot.  The  comforting  view  of  it  all 
is,  that  here  we  are  only  learning  to  love. 
We  are  like  birds  that  sit  upon  the  edge  of 
the  nest,  and  flutter,  and  chirp,  and  dread 
to  fly  away.  What  shall  the  bough  whereon 
our  nest  was  rocked  with  many  a  storm  be 


31 


when  we  have  learned  to  spread  these  tire- 
some wings  and  rejoice  in  the  blue  space 
of  the  boundless  air?  The  heroism  of  love, 
the  faithfulness  of  love,  the  grandeur,  pa- 
tience and  magnificence  of  love  shall  only 
be  revealed  when  the  soul  has  left  the  shad- 
ows and  spread  its  wing  in  the  empyrean 
of  heaven's  blue. 


There  is  a  small  boy  who  lives  at  our 
house  with  whom  I  wage  an  unending  war- 
fare on  the  subject  of  clean  hands.  The  sun 
never  goes  down  nor  yet  arises  upon  a  har- 
monious adjustment  of  the  mooted  question. 
There  are  more  tears  shed,  more  dire 
threats  made,  more  promises  broken,  more 
anguish  endured  on  that  one  account  than 
upon  any  other  under  the  sun. 

The  boy  dwells  under  a  ban  as  somber  as 
the  seven-fold  curse  of  Rome.  His  sisters 
nag  him,  his  grandmother  prays  for  him, 
his  mother  pleads  with  him,  his  girl  friends 
flout  him,  but  in  spite  of  all  he  continues  to 
wear  his  hands  in  half  tints.  But  the  other 
evening  he  made  an  announcement  that 
caused  even  the  young  person  to  remark: 


"Well,  I'd  rather  see  you  with  your  soiled 
hands  than  see  you  such  a  dude  as  that!" 

"Gee!"  said  the  boy,  "but  some  of  the  kids 
that  go  to  our  school  are  queer  ducks! ' 

"Don't  use  so  much  slang,"  cried  his 
mother;  "why  can't  you  call  a  boy  a  boy  as 
well  as  a  'kid'  and  a  'duck ;'  and  whatever  do 
you  mean  by  'Gee?' " 

"They  bring  little  cushions  to  school," 
continued  the  boy  with  only  a  swift  hug  in 
answer  to  his  mother  s  question,  "and  they 
put  'em  under  their  hands  when  they  play 
marbles,  so's  they  won't  get  their  hands 
dirty.  Gee  whiz,  but  I'm  glad  I  ain't  such  a 
fool!" 

And  in  spite  of  her  desire  to  see  him  a  bit 
more  solicitous  as  to  personal  elegance  his 
mother  could  but  echo  the  boy's  self-con- 
gratulatory remark. 

What  on  earth  is  going  to  become  of  us 
if  this  awful  wave  of  effeminacy  which  has 
struck  the  race  does  not  soon  subside?  Ear- 
muffs  and  galoshes,  heated  street  cars  in 
April  and  double  windows  up  to  rose  time 
have  done  their  best  to  make  molly  coddles 
out  of  men,  but  when  we  are  starting  a  gen- 
eration of  boys  to  play  marbles  with  cush- 
ions to  rest  their  hands  on  the  sex  had  bet- 


unfc     tu*.       33 


ter  abolish  hats  and  trousers  and  take  to 
hoods  and  shoulder  shawls.  Give  me  a  boy 
and  not  a  pocket  edition  of  an  old  woman. 
He  need  not  be  a  tough  nor  a  bully,  nor  need 
he  be  cruel  nor  untender  because  he  is  a  boy, 
but  I  want  him  jolly  and  brave  and  up  to 
every  harmless  prank  that's  going.  I  want 
him  to  use  slang  and  wear  muddy  shoes, 
slam  doors  and  make  all  sorts  of  futile  feints 
at  keeping  his  hands  clean,  provided,  al- 
ways, he  appreciates  the  opportunity  offered 
to  show  the  gentleman  that's  in  him  by  never 
appearing  at  table  looking  like  a  tramp. 
Even  that  is  better,  though,  than  being  a 
"sissy."  Give  him  time  and  the  untidiest 
boy  in  the  world  will  develop  into  a  gentle- 
man, but  eternity  itself  could  not  evolve  a 
man  out  of  a  boy  who  plays  marbles  with  a 
cushion  ! 


As  I  was  walking  down  Dearborn  street 
the  other  day,  close  upon  the  gloaming,  I 
chanced  to  meet  two  pretty  girls,  not  the 
only  two  in  this  big  city,  perhaps,  but  two 
of  the  fairest.  One  had  hair  like  the  tas- 
sel of  ripe  corn  when  the  sunshine  finds 
a 


34         0#*nm*ij  tmfr 


it;  the  other's  head  was  crowned  with 
dusky  braids,  and  the  eyes  of  the  two  were 
brimful  of  laughter  as  a  goblet  new-filled 
with  wine.  Surely  such  pretty  girls  should 
carry  queenly  hearts,  thought  I,  and  with 
my  old  trick  of  catching  topics  in  the  air, 
I  loitered  a  little  on  my  way  to  hear  what 
such  fair  lips  might  be  saying.  Said  one: 
"I  really  don't  care  to  marry  him;  he  is 
such  a  darned  fool!  but  he  will  give  me 
everything  I  want,  and  I  suppose  I  shall." 
I  stayed  to  hear  no  more.  If  I  had  caught 
a  yellow-bird  swearing,  or  seen  the  first 
robin  appear  in  Joliet  stripes,  the  revulsion 
from  pleasure  to  disgust  could  not  have 
been  more  sudden.  Is  this  all  the  les- 
son the  world  has  taught  you,  my  pretty 
maiden?  To  soil  your  lips  with  slang  and 
sell  yourself  for  fine  clothes  and  the  chance 
of  unlimited  display!  Forecasting  the  life 
of  such  a  girl  is  like  forecasting  an  April  day 
that  dawns  in  tints  of  purple  and  gold,  and 
ends  in  tempest  and  the  blackness  of  night. 
Beauty  is  a  glorious  heritage,  indeed,  but  to 
see  it  worn  by  such  types  as  you,  my  pretty 
dears,  is  like  seeing  a  queen's  crown  on  the 
head  of  a  parrot,  or  a  royal  scepter  in  the 
grasp  of  a  monkey. 


35 


Niagara  Falls!  What  heart  is  so  stolid, 
what  appreciative  spirit  so  calloused  over 
with  the  hard  crust  of  stoicism  not  to  rise 
and  shout  before  the  wonder  of  its  magnifi- 
cence? When  a  man  or  woman  gets  so  blase 
as  to  thrill  no  more  over  Niagara  Falls,  let 
them  be  salted  down  with  last  year's  hams 
and  hung  on  a  hook  in  the  quiet  seclusion 
of  a  smokehouse. 

First  we  took  our  way  over  the  bridge 
that  leads  to  the  beautifully  kept  Goat 
Island  and,  alighting  from  the  carriage, 
stood  for  a  time  with  the  full  splendor  of 
the  American  fall  in  our  faces.  A  fasci- 
nation that  could  not  be  shaken  off  held 
the  eyes  upon  that  never-stayed  torrent  of 
sun-illumined  jewels.  Diamonds  they  were, 
and  great  uncut  emeralds,  with  here  and 
there  a  rain  of  fiery  rubies,  that  tumbled 
from  off  the  lifted  ledge  of  imperishable 
rock.  And  where  the  volume  widened,  un- 
til it  became  an  avalanche  of  snowy  foam, 
shot  through  and  through  with  needles  of 
light,  it  seemed  to  us  that  the  law  of  gravi- 
tation had  been  forever  abandoned,  and  fall- 


36 

ing  tons  of  water,  losing  kinship  drop  with 
drop,  were  floated  skyward  again  to  find  a 
home  in  heaven.  Down-shooting  rockets  of 
silver  foam  unfallen,  yet  always  in  the  air! 
Canopies  of  cloud,  dissolving  into  fine  dust- 
like  roadside  pollen !  Draperies  of  spray  un- 
rolled in  noiseless  splendor  from  the  blue 
background  of  an  endless  day!  Explosions 
in  mid  air  of  thunderous  torrents  that  turned 
to  carded  wool  on  the  way  from  heaven  to 
earth!  While  I  stood  and  watched  it  all 
somebody  profaned  the  air  with  a  vulgar 
word,  and  I  looked  for  a  flaming  sword  from 
the  omnipotent  hand  to  smite  him  where  he 
stood.  To  swear,  or  even  to  think  an  un- 
holy thought  in  such  a  holy  of  holies,  de- 
serves the  penalty  of  death  as  much  as  did 
the  desecration  of  the  temple  in  ancient 
times. 

Shifting  our  place  from  point  to  point,  we 
found  ourselves  at  last  standing  on  the  very 
verge  of  the  Horseshoe  falls,  where,  crowned 
with  living  green,  it  slips  over  the  crumbling 
ledge  and  loses  itself  in  a  dazzling  whirl  of 
spray.  Although  I  have  stood  in  that  same 
spot  many  times  I  am  proud  to  remark  that 
I  have  never  stood  there  yet  without  saying 
my  prayers.  The  sight  is  too  much  for  the 


37 

puny  ego  that  animates  this  little  capricious 
whiff  of  dust  we  call  our  mortal  body,  and 
now,  if  never  before,  the  soul  that  retains 
one  particle  of  the  divine  within  it  turns  to 
God  as  the  sunflower  follows  the  sun. 
While  we  stood  entranced  by  the  sublime 
beauty  of  the  scene  a  mighty  wind  arose 
suddenly  and  great  clouds  were  called 
across  the  sky  to  the  sending  of  a  swift 
alarm.  Before  the  breath  of  the  wind  the 
mists  were  tumbled  far  and  wide  like 
feathers,  and  a  rainbow  that  arched  the 
whole  was  demolished  into  nothingness  only 
to  be  kindled  again  as  a  flame  in  the  whim- 
sical breath  of  the  riotous  air.  One  moment 
the  atmosphere  was  a  fairy  flower  garden, 
full  of  violets,  roses,  green  feathery  ferns 
and  passion-tinted  tulips  brimming  over 
with  gold.  The  next  some  giant  hand 
reached  forth  and  plucked  and  bore  each 
flower  away.  A  suffusion  of  color  followed 
every  flood  of  sunshine,  as  a  pomegranate 
runs  with  juice  at  the  touch  of  a  knife,  only 
to  be  succeeded  by  pale  wafts  of  colorless, 
interminable  spray,  where  a  cloud  caught 
the  too  eager  sun  within  its  soft  eclipse. 


38       Itoacmttrit  cmfcr 

If  the  Lord  left  any  snakes  in  Paradise 
after  the  settlement  of  the  primal  fuss  they 
took  the  shape  of  the  man  who  is  a  confirmed 
cynic  and  pessimist.  The  man  who  has  no 
faith,  no  enthusiasm,  no  candor,  no  senti- 
ment. The  man  who  laughs  at  the  mention 
of  good  in  the  world,  or  virtue  in  women,  or 
honor  among  men.  The  man  who  calls  his 
wife  a  fool  because  she  teaches  his  little  chil- 
dren to  say  their  prayers,  and  curls  his  lip  at 
any  belief  in  the  world  beyond  the  grave. 
The  man  who  never  saw  anything  worth 
admiring  in  the  sky  when  the  dawn  touches 
it,  or  the  stars  illumine  it,  or  the  clouds 
sweep  it,  or  the  rain  folds  it  in  gray  mists  of 
silence.  The  man  who  lives  in  this  spark- 
ling, shining  world  as  a  frog  lives  in  a  pond 
or  a  toad  in  a  cellar,  only  to  croak  and  spit 
venom.  The  man  who  never  saw  anything 
in  a  rose  aglint  in  the  sunlight  or  in  a  lily 
asleep  in  the  moonlight,  but  a  species  of 
useless  vegetable,  the  inferior  of  the  cabbage 
and  the  onion.  The  world  is  overfull  of 
such  men,  and  if  I  had  the  right  sort  of 
broom  I'd  sweep  them  away  as  the  new  girl 
sweeps  spiders. 


<*«&  Knc*       39 


Once  I  was  sailing  in  a  yacht  close  to  the 
rock-bound  coast  of  Maine. 

It  was  presumably  a  pleasure  cruise,  but 
if  ever  a  poor  wretch  in  purgatory  had  a 
harder  time  of  it  I  am  sorry  for  him. 

The  fog  was  thick,  the  ground  swell  was 
enough  to  unsettle  the  seven  hills  of  Rome, 
and  something  was  wrong  with  the  boat's 
machinery,  so  that  for  hours  we  lay  in  the 
trough  of  the  sea,  making  no  headway  and 
fearful  that  each  moment  would  be  our 
last.  Added  to  all  this  there  came  at  short 
intervals  a  demoniac  blast  from  a  fog  horn 
which  rent  the  air  with  the  clamor  of  a  thou- 
sand tongues. 

"Look  out!"  it  seemed  to  shriek  over  and 
over  again.  "Look  out,  poor  fragile  wisps 
of  gossamer!  The  hour  strikes  for  your 
destruction.  Another  wave,  a  little  higher 
than  the  last,  shall  suck  you  down  like  a 
shred  of  foam  into  the  blackness  of  the  sea's 
dark  vortex.  Brace  up  and  meet  your 
doom.  Look  out!  Look  out!  Look  out!" 

I  listened  to  that  fog  horn  for  hours,  until 
the  soul  within  me  lay  like  a  spent  bird 
weary  with  futile  beating  of  useless  wings,. 
and  I  came  within  a  hair's  breadth  of  mad- 
ness. In  fact,  I  think  I  had  commenced  to 


40      $u*0ema¥tt  cut** 

rave  a  bit  when  a  brisk  wind  sprang  up  that 
blew  the  fog  away,  the  crew  succeeded  in 
righting  the  craft  and  onward  we  flew  out 
of  sound  of  the  terrible  fog  horn  forever. 

There  are  many  things  in  life  that  remind 
me  of  fog  horns;  there  are  many  occasions 
that  beat  upon  the  soul  with  just  such  vo- 
ciferous clamor. 

There  are  those  old-fashioned  Bible  texts, 
shouting  "hell  fire"  and  "eternal  damnation." 
What  are  they  but  fog  horns  warning  us 
from  off  a  mist-enveloped  shore?  We  can- 
not shut  our  ears  to  them  while  we  lie  a 
furlong  off  the  rocks  and  listen  to  their 
woeful  reiteration.  Perhaps  some  chance 
wind  may  blow  us  out  to  sea,  there  to  es- 
cape for  the  present  the  unwelcome  climax ; 
but  we  know  that  underneath  the  shrouded 
stars  and  through  the  hush  of  midnight  for- 
ever and  forevermore  sounds  the  crash  of 
that  brazen  alarm.  We  may  not  heed  it, 
but  the  fog  horn  is  there,  forget  and  disown 
it  though  we  may. 

Then  there  are  our  birthdays  after  we 
grow  old  enough  to  understand  their  sig- 
nificance ;  what  are  they  but  fog  horns  that 
sound  at  intervals  to  denote  that  we  are 
drawing  near  to  the  final  doom  of  all  man- 
kind? 


cwtfr      ite.       41 


"Sport  on,"  they  seem  to  say,  "a  little 
longer  ;  weave  your  garlands  and  blow  your 
pretty  bubbles  while  you  may,  for  to-mor- 
row you  shall  surely  die!" 

Each  year  the  fog  horn  blows  a  louder 
blast,  until  finally  the  softened  haze  of 
creeping  years,  like  a  white  fog  in  the  sea 
air,  muffles  the  sound,  and  we  sink  to  rest  at 
last,  some  of  us  with  the  wild  clamor  hushed 
to  the  measure  of  a  good-night  song. 

Then  the  holidays.  Thanksgivings  and 
Christmases  with  independence  days,  like 
wine-red  roses  dropped  between,  what  are 
they  but  fog  horns  on  the  invisible  shores 
of  memory?  How  they  mock  us  with  the 
recollection  of  vanished  joys,  and  warn  us 
of  barren  years  yet  to  be. 

Gone  forever  are  the  dear  ones  who  made 
gala  times  and  festival  happenings  bright, 
and  still  we  linger  like  boats  in  the  trough 
of  a  sullen  sea,  our  motive  power  wrecked, 
our  sails  rent,  and  listen,  listen,  listen  to 
the  warning  that  sounds  from  far  off  the 
hazy  shore. 

"Gone,  forever  gone,"  the  fog  horn  cries  ; 
"gone  down  into  the  sea,  the  boats  that 
kept  you  company  when  the  bright-winged 
fleet  put  out  from  port!  Lost  forever,  in 


42 


storms  it  seems  scarce  worth  the  while  to 
have  weathered,  since  here  you  toss,  alone 
at  last,  like  driftwood  on  the  chilly  tide,  and 
listen  forever  to  the  mournful  warning  of 
my  voice  from  off  the  sandbars,  warning 
you  that  not  even  love  can  withstand  the 
beat  of  time's  relentless  years." 

Our  desks  are  full  of  miniature  fog  horns 
in  the  shape  of  unanswered  letters. 

Our  closets  hang  full  of  fog  horns  of 
varying  fabrics.  They  warn  us  of  the  folly 
of  trusting  to  bargain  sales  of  shoddy  goods  ; 
they  warn  us  against  extravagant  tastes 
when  times  are  hard;  they  warn  us  against 
the  lazy  mood  that  neglects  the  stitch  in 
time  that  saveth  nine. 

Every  time  we  are  ill  the  occasion  is  a 
fog  horn. 

Either  we  have  disregarded  some  law  of 
health  and  are  in  the  trough  of  the  sea  in 
consequence,  or  we  are  flying  on  to  the 
breakers  with  ears  dulled  to  the  fog  horn's 
din. 

We  speak  with  cruel  harshness  to  the  old 
mother  who  loves  us,  or  to  the  little  child 
who  trusts  us.  We  are  sorry  for  it  after- 
ward, and  that  sorrow  is  the  fog  horn  that 
warns  us  to  keep  off  the  reef  of  temper. 


anfr  |$i***       43 

"To-day  may  be  the  last  day  for  the 
mother  you  have  pained  or  the  child  you 
have  wronged,"  it  seems  to  say;  "the  bed 
they  lie  down  upon  to-night  may  be  the  bed 
of  death.  See  to  it,  then,  that  you  make 
each  day  of  life,  if  possible,  the  last  day 
of  love's  opportunity."  Did  you  ever  stop 
to  think  of  what  would  become  the  instant 
concern  of  all  this  vast  human  race  if  a  sud- 
den edict  should  go  forth  that  only  twenty- 
four  hours  were  left  for  each  man  to  live? 
What  if  an  angel  should  appear  to-day  at 
sunset  and  proclaim  in  a  voice  that  should 
reach  from  world's  center  to  world's  rim, 
"To-morrow  at  set  of  sun  this  globe  and 
all  its  race  of  sentient  life  shall  be  folded 
up  like  a  scroll  and  effaced  from  heaven's 
chart!" 

What  would  we  all  begin  to  do  then,  I 
wonder?  I  think  that  everything  would  be 
forgotten  but  love.  Envy  and  hatred,  covet- 
ousness,  jealousy,  ambition,  selfishness  and 
cruelty  would  find  no  place  in  the  hearts  of 
men.  We  would  improve  love's  latest  op- 
portunity to  be  kind  one  to  another,  tender- 
hearted and  merciful.  The  husband  would 
not  be  harsh  with  his  wife,  nor  the  wife 
show  waspish  temper  to  her  husband,  if  the 


44 

last  day  had  come  for  both.  The  father 
would  not  strike  his  boy  in  uncontrolled 
temper,  nor  the  mother  rebuke  her  careless 
child,  if  the  knowledge  that  the  end  of  love's 
opportunity  lay  between  the  uplifted  hand 
and  the  culprit.  We  should  all  be  loving 
and  fond  and  sweet  if  we  only  knew.  My 
dear,  this  very  thought,  carried  out,  is  but 
another  fog  horn.  Perhaps  death  is  already 
near,  and  the  brazen  clamor  in  our  hearts 
which  takes  shape  of  an  uneasy  con- 
science or  of  a  nameless  dread  is  but  the 
warning  in  the  fog  that  we  are  close  upon 
the  fatal  reef.  Ah,  the  air  is  full  of  them! 
They  sound  in  every  waking  moment,  they 
mingle  with  our  dreams,  they  greet  our 
opening  eyes,  they  accompany  us  when  the 
tired  lids  fall  in  slumber.  The  shore  is 
lined  with  them  and  their  warning  is  as 
ceaseless  as  the  beat  of  time's  receding 
waves. 

But  of  what  use  is  a  fog  horn  to  a  vessel 
that  gives  no  heed?  Why  uplift  them  on 
dangerous  reefs  if  the  ship's  crew  sleeps 
through  their  warning  and  the  unconscious 
captain  ignores  their  hoarse  note  of  alarm? 

An  unheeded  fog  horn  might  as  well  be 
silenced,  and  so,  I  sometimes  think,  if  we 


ant*  ftlu*.      45 

allow  our  hearts  to  grow  callous  to  the  call 
that  conscience  makes,  why  not  be  thankful 
when  the  warning  ceases  and  silence  follows 
the  useless  repetition  of  an  unavailing  ap- 
peal? If  I  am  to  be  shipwrecked  at  last  I 
think  I  would  rather  run  upon  the  reefs 
without  warning  than  to  drift  to  destruc- 
tion to  the  mocking  cadence  of  an  alarm  I 
would  not  heed.  To  go  down  with  the  sound 
in  my  ears  of  an  admonition  that  might  have 
saved  me  had  I  but  listened  would  be  the 
hardest  sort  of  dying. 


HER  CRADLE. 

There  are  tears  on  the  gentian's  eyelids, 
As  they  lift  them,  fringed  and  fair. 

Do  they  mourn  for  the  vanished  brightness 
Of  my  baby's  golden  hair? 

There's  a  cloud  a-droop  in  the  heavens 
That  shadows  their  sunny  hue. 

Does  it  dream  of  the  lovelight  tender 
In  my  baby's  eyes  so  blue? 

The  golden  rod  pines  in  the  forest. 

The  aster  pales  by  the  brook. 
Do  they  miss  her  fairy  footfall 

In  each  dim  and  flow'ry  nook? 


46 


Now,  all  through  this  beautiful  weather, 

Wherever  I  walk,  I  weep; 
For  I  think  of  the  desolate  cradle 

Where  my  baby  lies  asleep. 


The  other  night,  as  I  was  listening  to 
"taps"  in  a  neighboring  military  camp,  a 
longing  came  over  me  for  a  silver  bugle  of 
•my  own,  that  I  might  blow  a  message  to 
the  drowsy  world.  We  all  listen  to  that  fel- 
low up  at  Fort  Sheridan,  when  he  gives  the 
command  for  "lights  out!"  just  because  he 
blows  it  through  a  bugle.  He  might  come 
out  and  say  what  he  had  to  say  in  tones 
anywhere  between  a  cornet  and  a  clap  of 
thunder,  and  the  effect  would  be  nothing  to 
what  it  is  when  the  notes  filter  through  a 
silver  mouthpiece.  And  how  exquisitely  the 
last  strains  of  that  nightly  call  linger  on  the 
ear !  They  melt  into  the  starry  glooms,  and 
throb  through  the  dim  spaces  of  the  woods 
like  golden  bubbles  or  the  wavering  flight 
of  butterflies.  Whenever  we  hear  them  we 
think  of  Grant,  asleep  in  his  grave  by  the 
mighty  river,  of  his  work  well  done,  and 
the  rest  that  dropped  upon  his  pain-racked 
life  at  last  like  a  soft  and  rainy  shadow  on 


(tntt  filttr.       47 

a  thirsty  land.  We  think  of  hosts  of  brave 
men  who  fill  soldiers'  graves  all  over  this 
blood-bought  heritage  of  ours.  We  think  of 
hearts  that  once  beat  high,  for  long  years 
silent  as  stones  to  all  our  cries  and  tears. 
We  think  of  a  host  of  things,  solemn  and 
hushed,  and  sacred,  and  drop  to  sleep  at 
last  with  an  indistinct  purpose  in  our  hearts 
to  so  conduct  ourselves  that  when  the  Death 
Angel  blows  "taps"  for  us,  we  shall  leave 
a  record  behind  us  to  be  read  through  fond, 
regretful  tears,  and  enshrined  in  golden 
characters  upon  the  tablets  of  memory. 

Now,  if  I  had  a  bugle  instead  of  a  pen, 
to  work  with,  and  if  I  could  stand  out  under 
the  stars  on  a  hushed  summer  night  and 
deliver  my  message  through  its  silver  throat, 
perhaps  the  world  that  reads  me  might  be 
thrilled  into  earnest  purpose  more  readily 
than  it  is  when  exhorted  from  a  pencil  point 
or  a  quill.  The  first  message  I  should  ring 
through  that  bugle  of  mine  would  be  the 
command,  "Don't  fret!"  However  comfort- 
less and  forlorn  you  may  be,  don't  add  to 
your  own  and  the  world's  misery  by  fret- 
ting. There  never  yet  was  a  sorrow  that 
could  not  be  lived  down;  there  never  yet 
was  one  that  could  be  cured  by  worry. 


When  the  cows  get  into  the  corn  and  the 
chickens  into  the  flower-beds,  the  sensible 
man  chases  'em  out  first,  repairs  the  dam- 
age next,  and,  lastly,  fastens  up  the  break 
in  the  garden  wall  by  which  the  marauders 
got  in.  What  would  you  think  of  a  farmer 
who  went  into  his  bedroom  to  pray  before 
he  chased  out  the  cows,  or  of  a  woman  who 
threw  her  apron  over  her  head  and  wept 
long  and  loud  because  the  hens  were 
scratching  up  her  pink  roots,  instead  of 
"shooing"  them  a  half-mile  away  with  a 
broom  ?  Most  troubles  come  upon  us  as 
the  cattle  and  the  hens  get  into  the  corn  and 
the  garden  patch,  through  a  broken  fence 
or  a  carelessly  unguarded  gate.  It  is  our 
own  fault  half  the  time  that  we  are  tor- 
mented, and  the  sooner  we  repair  the  dam- 
age and  mend  the  fence,  the  better.  Time 
spent  in  useless  bewailing,  in  worry  and  dis- 
quietude, is  lost  time,  and  while  we  wait  the 
mischief  thickens.  Take  life's  trials  one  by 
one,  as  the  handful  of  heroes  met  the  host  at 
Thermopylae,  and  you  will  slay  them  all; 
but  allow  them  to  marshal  themselves  on  a 
broad  field  while  you  are  crying  over  their 
coming  or  praying  for  deliverance,  instead 
of  arming  yourselves  to  meet  them,  and  they 


49 

will  make  captives  of  you  and  keep  you  for- 
ever in  the  dungeon  of  tears.  Is  your  hus- 
band too  poor  to  buy  you  all  the  fine  clothes 
you  want,  or  to  keep  a  carriage,  or  to  sur- 
round you  with  pleasant  society  and  con- 
genial friends?  Very  well,  that  is  certainly 
too  bad,  but  what's  the  use  of  being  forever 
in  the  dumps  about  it?  Get  up  and  help  him 
keep  the  cows  out  of  the  corn,  and  perhaps 
you'll  have  a  golden  harvest  yet.  A  sullen, 
discontented  wife  is  a  millstone  around  any 
man's  neck,  and  he  may  be  thankful  when 
the  good  Lord  delivers  him  from  her.  What- 
soever is  worth  having  in  this  world's  gifts 
is  worth  working  for,  and  wedlock  is  like  an 
ox-team  at  the  plow.  If  the  off-ox  won't 
pull  with  the  nigh  one,  it  has  no  claim  with 
him  upon  the  possible  future  of  a  comforta- 
ble stall  and  a  full  bin.  Out  upon  you,  then, 
Madam  Gruntle,  if  you  sulk,  and  pout  and 
fret  your  days  away  because  your  husband 
is  a  poor  man  and  spends  most  of  his  time 
chasing  the  cattle,  calamity  and  failure  out 
of  his  wheat  patch.  He  may  possibly  be  one 
of  fortune's  numerous  ne'er-do-wells,  but  in 
that  case  all  the  more  reason  you  should  not 
fail  him.  Bent  reeds  need  careful  handling, 
and  smoking  flax  gentle  tending,  else  they 

4 


50       litfacnmx-u  imfc 


will  perish  on  your  hands  and  disappoint 
both  you  and  heaven.  All  the  more  reason 
that  you  should  be  cheery  and  strong  and 
ready  to  do  your  part,  if  the  man  you  mar- 
ried, because  you  dearly  loved  him  (remem- 
ber!) is  unable  to  do  all  that  he  promised. 
That  is,  always  provided  he  is  weak  and  un- 
fortunate, rather  than  desperately  wicked. 
A  woman  has  no  call  to  stand  by  any  man 
if  he  is  a  wretch  and  shows  no  desire  to  be 
anything  else.  The  Lord  himself  never 
helped  a  sinner  until  he  showed  some  desire 
to  be  saved.  Less  repining,  then,  a  little 
more  forbearance  with  one  another's  short- 
comings, and  a  little  more  loyalty  to  the 
promise  "for  better  or  for  worse,"  will  ease 
up  much  of  the  burden  of  dissatisfied  and 
disappointed  wedlock. 

Another  message  that  I  should  blow 
through  that  bugle,  if  I  had  it  at  my  lips 
to-night,  would  be:  "Be  true!"  And  I 
should  ring  it  out  so  long  and  loud,  I  think, 
that  the  moon  would  stop  to  listen,  and  the 
sleepy  heads  in  every  home  in  the  land 
would  rise  from  their  pillows  like  night- 
capped  crocuses  out  of  the  snow.  For  heav- 
en's sake,  if  you  have  a  principle  or  a  friend, 
be  true  to  them.  Make  up  your  mind, 


51 


whether  or  no  your  principle  is  solid  and 
has  God  and  justice  on  its  side,  and  then  be 
true  to  it  right  down  to  death,  or,  what  is 
harder,  through  misunderstanding  and  ob- 
loquy. And  if  you  have  a  friend,  such  as 
God  sometimes  gives  a  woman  or  a  man, 
faithful  through  all  betiding,  staunch  in 
your  defense  and  tender  in  your  blame, 
stand  true  to  that  friend  until  the  grave's 
green  canopy  is  spread  between  you.  He 
may  be  unpopular  and  unfortunate,  and  all 
the  feather-headed  crew  of  society  may  ig- 
nore him,  but  if  you  have  ever  tested  his 
worth  as  a  friend,  stand  up  for  him,  and 
stand  by  him  forever.  The  sun  may  go 
down  upon  his  fortunes,  and  calumny  may 
cloud  his  name,  and  you  may  know  in  your 
heart  that  more  than  half  the  world  says 
about  him  is  true,  but  stand  by  the  man 
who  has  once  been  your  true  friend.  In- 
gratitude is  the  blackest  crime  that  preys 
upon  the  human  soul.  The  forgetfulness  of 
a  favor,  or  the  effacement  of  a  bond  sealed 
with  an  obligation,  is  capable  only  to  weak 
and  cowardly  natures. 

If  you  have  a  conviction,  and  are  con- 
scientious in  the  belief  that  you  are  right, 
be  true  to  your  professions.  If  you  are  a 


62 

rebel,  be  a  rebel  out  and  out,  and  don't  be 
a  goat  to  leap  nimbly  back  and  forth  over 
the  fence.  Never  apologize  for  either  your 
faith  or  your  profession,  unless  you  have 
reason  to  be  ashamed  of  it;  and,  if  you  are 
ashamed  of  it,  renounce  it  and  get  one  that 
will  need  no  apology. 

There  are  lots  of  other  messages  I  would 
like  to  stand  on  a  hill  and  blow  through  a 
bugle,  but  the  weather  is  too  warm  to  admit 
of  further  effort  just  now;  so  we'll  postpone 
the  topic  for  another  hearing. 


I  sat  in  a  fashionable  church  the  other  day 
and  listened  to  a  sermon  on  "The  Prodigal 
Son."  How  often  I  have  heard  the  same 
old  story  told  in  the  same  old  way.  How 
familiar  I  have  become  with  the  kind  father, 
the  bad  son,  refreshingly  human  heir,  the 
veal  and  the  ring!  But  the  last  time  I 
heard  the  story  I  felt  an  almost  uncontrol- 
lable impulse  to  rise  up  in  meeting  and  ask 
the  question,  "How  does  the  treatment  ac- 
corded to  the  prodigal  son  match  the  treat- 
ment we  mete  out  to  the  prodigal  daugh- 
ter?" 


53 

How  far  out  of  our  way  do  we  go  to  ac- 
company his  sister  on  her  homeward  faring 
after  a  season  spent  among  the  swine  and 
the  husks? 

Do  we  put  an  i8-karat  ring  on  her  poor 
little  soiled  finger  and  place  her  at  the  head 
of  our  table,  even  if  by  good  chance  she 
gains  an  entrance  to  the  home?  Do  we  not 
more  often  meet  her  at  the  back  door  when 
nobody  is  looking,  rush  her  through  the 
hallway  and  consign  her  to  the  little  third 
story  rear  room,  taking  her  meals  to  her  our- 
selves, on  the  sly,  that  the  neighors  may 
not  find  out  the  dreadful  fact  that  she  is  at 
home  again? 

"Keep  yourself  very  close,"  we  say  to  her, 
"and  by  no  manner  of  means  be  seen  at  any 
of  the  windows,  and  you  may  stay  here. 
You  can  wear  some  of  your  virtuous  sis- 
ter's cast-off  clothing,  and  sleep  on  the 
lounge  in  the  nursery,  where  the  servants 
never  think  of  going  since  the  little  folks 
have  grown  up,  but  you  must  be  very  peni- 
tent, and  very  humble,  and  very  thankful  to 
God  for  the  mercy  you  so  little  deserve." 

I  think  somebody  had  better  write  a  new 
parable  and  call  it  "The  Prodigal  Daughter." 
Perhaps  a  sermon  might  be  preached  from  it 
to  touch  the  unmoved  heart. 


54 

After  all  there  are  two  sorts  of  prodigals 
— the  prodigal  who  comes  home  because  the 
cash  gives  out,  and  the  prodigal  who  comes 
because  his  heart  turns  back  to  the  old  home 
with  such  longing  as  the  thirsty  feel  for 
water.  Neither  boy  nor  girl  who  comes 
back  for  the  first-named  reason  should  find 
a  maudlin  love  awaiting,  nor  partake  of  any 
banquet  that  the  old  folks  have  had  to  pay 
for,  but  the  prodigal  who  returns  because 
there  is  something  left  in  his  or  her  heart 
like  the  music  in  a  shell,  which  nothing  can 
destroy  or  hush  away  to  silence,  be  that 
prodigal  sinful  man  or  erring  woman, 
should  find  not  only  the  home  doors  swung 
wide  in  welcome,  but  every  doorway  in  the 
land  wreathed  with  flowers  to  bid  him 
enter. 


How  few  people  know  when  to  stop.  If 
the  preacher  knew  when  to  stop  preaching, 
how  much  more  satisfactory  the  result  of  his 
sermon  might  be.  If  the  genial  fellow  knew 
just  when  to  stop  telling  his  good  stories, 
how  much  keener  their  relish  would  be.  If 
the  moralizer  knew  just  when  to  stop  mor- 


55 

alizing,  how  much  longer  the  flavor  of  his 
philosophy  would  endure.  If  the  friend 
knew  when  to  keep  still,  how  grateful  his 
silence  would  be.  If  the  candid  creature 
who  so  glibly  tells  of  our  foibles  knew  when 
to  hold  his  tongue,  how  much  less  strong 
our  impulse  to  slap  him  would  be.  If  the 
high-liver  knew  when  to  stop  eating,  how 
much  less  sure  dyspepsia  would  be.  If  the 
popular  guest  knew  when  to  withdraw,  how 
much  more  regretfully  we  should  see  him 
go.  If  the  politician  knew  when  to  retire 
into  private  life,  how  much  whiter  his  record 
would  be.  If  we  all  knew  just  when  to  die, 
and  could  opportunely  bring  the  event 
about,  how  much  truer  our  epitaphs  would 
be.  The  court  fool  who  prayed,  "Oh  God, 
be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool!"  prayed  deeper 
than  he  knew,  and  the  man  who  prays,  "Oh 
God,  teach  me  to  know  when  I  have  said 
enough,"  prays  deeper  still. 


You  may  talk  about  California  all  you 
will,  but  match,  if  you  can,  the  beauty  of 
spring  as  it  comes  to  us  in  these  northerly 
latitudes.  There  is  the  coy  advance  and  re~ 


56 

treat  of  a  woman  hard  to  win;  there  is  the 
crescendo  and  diminuendo  of  heavenly  har- 
monies; there  is  the  dissolving  view  that 
glimmers  and  glows  like  an  opal,  or  like  the 
mirage  of  a  misty  sea.  I  was  in  California 
a  year  ago,  in  April  time.  I  found  the  month 
that  poets  love  in  full  splendor,  like  a  queen 
who  never  doffs  her  crown.  Violets,  roses, 
lilacs  and  carnations  came  all  together  in  a 
riotous  rush.  One  did  not  have  to  woo  the 
season ;  it  was  already  won.  Like  a  matron 
crowned  with  the  mid-splendor  of  her  years, 
the  earth  received  the  homage  that  is  due 
achievement.  Nobody  caught  the  sound  of 
the  first  robin  on  a  rainy  morning  and  her- 
alded it  with  a  shout;  the  first  robin,  like 
the  first  principle  in  creation,  never  exist- 
ed, for  the  reason  that  he  was  always  there. 
There  were  no  foretellings  of  green  along 
the  watercourses;  no  prophetic  thrills  of 
violets  in  the  air ;  no  uplifting  of  the  hypati- 
ca's  downy  head  above  the  lattice  of  fuzzy 
leaves ;  everything  was  right  where  you  dis- 
covered it,  and  had  been  all  the  year  round. 
Without  beginning  and  without  end,  spring 
exists  forever,  like  a  picture  bound  within  a 
book,  in  the  lovely  land  of  the  Gringos. 
But  walk  out  some  April  >morning  in  the 


57 


suburbs  that  surround  Chicago.  Catch  the 
tonic  of  the  air,  like  wine  ever  so  delicately 
chilled  with  ice.  View  the  lake,  like  a  gen- 
tian flower  fringed  with  a  horizon  fine  as 
silk.  Scrape  away  the  leaves  and  hail  the 
valiant  Robin  Hood  in  his  suit  of  green, 
leading  his  legion  upward  to  the  sun.  With- 
out the  sound  of  a  footfall  or  the  gleam  of  a 
lance,  they  come  to  take  possession  of  the 
earth.  Woo  the  violet  to  turn  her  dewy 
eye  upon  you,  and  listen  to  the  minstrel  in 
the  tower,  where  the  winds  are  harping  to 
the  new  buds.  Mark  the  maple  twigs,  like 
silhouettes  cut  in  coral,  and  the  sheath  of 
the  wood  lily,  like  a  ribbon  half  unrolled. 
Rejoice  in  the  flash  of  the  blue  bird's  wing 
as  it  startles  the  still  air,  and  then  say  to  me, 
if  you  dare,  that  you  prefer  any  other  climate 
to  this  one  that  belts  the  zone  of  these  north- 
ern lakes. 


Thank  the  Lord,  all  ye  who  can  call  your- 
selves healthy.  The  day  has  gone  by  for 
physically  delicate  women.  This  age  de- 
mands Hebes  and  young  Venuses  with  am- 
ple waists  and  veritable  muscles.  Specked 


58 

fruit  and  specked  people  go  in  the  same 
category  in  the  popular  taste.  To  the  ques- 
tion, "How  are  you  to-day?"  I  for  one,  al- 
ways feel  like  replying  in  the  words  of  an 
old  Irish  servant  we  once  had  (God  rest  her 
faithful  soul  wherever  it  be  this  windy  day!), 
"First-rate,  glory  be  to  God !"  It  is  such  a 
grand  thing  to  be  well  and  strong,  to  feel 
that  your  soul  is  riding  on  its  way  to  glory 
in  a  chariot,  and  not  in  a  broken-down  old 
mud-cart.  Talk  about  happiness !  Why,  a 
well  beggar  has  a  better  time  of  it  than  a  sick 
king,  any  day.  If,  then,  like  a  bird,  your 
strong  wing  uplifts  you  above  the  countless 
shafts  of  pain  which  that  grim  old  sports- 
man, Death,  is  ever  aiming  at  poor  humani- 
ty, count  yourself  an  ingrate  if  the  song  of 
thanksgiving  is  not  always  welling  from 
your  heart  like  the  constant  song  of  a  bobo- 
link singing  for  very  joy  above  the  clover. 


What  would  be  thought  of  a  ship  that  was 
launched  from  its  docks  with  flourish  of 
music  and  flowing  wine,  built  to  sail  the 
roughest  and  deepest  sea,  yet  manned  for 
an  unending  cruise  along  shore?  Never 


59 


leaving  harbor  for  dread  of  storm.  Never 
swinging  out  of  the  land-girt  bay  because 
over  the  bar,  the  waters  were  deep  and 
rough.  You  would  say  of  such  a  ship  that 
its  captain  was  a  coward  and  the  company 
that  built  it  were  fools. 

And  yet  these  souls  of  ours  were  fash- 
ioned for  bottomless  soundings.  There  is 
no  created  thing  that  draws  as  deep  as  the 
soul  of  man;  our  life  lies  straight  across 
the  ocean  and  not  along  shore,  but  we  are 
afraid  to  venture;  we  hang  upon  thte  coast 
and  explore  shallow  lagoons  or  swing  at 
anchor  in  idle  bays.  Some  of  us  strike 
the  keel  into  riches  and  cruise  about  therein, 
like  men-of-war  in  a  narrow  river.  Some  of 
us  are  contented  all  our  days  to  ride  at 
anchor  in  the  becalmed  waters  of  selfish 
ease.  There  are  guns  at  every  port-hole 
of  the  ship  we  sail,  but  we  use  them  for  pegs 
to  hang  clothes  upon,  or  pigeon-holes  to 
stack  full  of  idle  hours.  We  shall  never 
smell  powder,  although  the  magazine  is 
stocked  with  holy  wrath  wherewith  to  fight 
the  devil  and  his  deeds.  When  I  see  a  man 
strolling  along  at  his  ease,  while  under  his 
very  nose  some  brute  is  maltreating  a  horse, 
or  some  coward  venting  his  ignoble  wrath 


eo 


upon  a  creature  more  helpless  than  he, 
whether  it  be  a  child  or  a  dog,  I  involuntarily 
think  of  a  double-decked  whaler  content  to 
fish  for  minnows.  Their  uselessness  in  the 
world  is  more  apparent  than  the  uselessness 
of  a  Cunarder  in  a  park  pond. 

What  did  God  give  you  muscle  and  girth 
and  brain  for,  if  not  to  launch  you  on 
the  high  seas?  Up  and  away  with  you  then 
into  the  deep  soundings  where  you  belong, 
oh,  belittled  soul!  Find  the  work  to  do  for 
which  you  were  fitted  and  do  it,  or  else  run 
yourself  on  the.  first  convenient  snag  and 
founder. 

Some  great  writer  has  said  that  we  ought 
to  begin  life  as  at  the  source  of  a  river, 
growing  deeper  every  league  to  the  sea, 
whereas,  in  fact,  thousands  enter  the  river 
at  its  mouth,  and  sail  inland,  finding  less  and 
less  water  every  day,  until  in  old  age  they 
lie  shrunk  and  gasping  upon  dry  ground. 

But  there  are  more  who  do  not  sail  at  all 
than  there  are  of  those  who  make  the  mis- 
take of  sailing  up  stream.  There  are  the 
women  who  devote  their  lives  to  the  petty 
business  of  pleasing  worthless  men.  What 
progress  do  they  make  even  inland?  With 
sails  set  and  brassy  stanchions  polished  to 


61 


the  similitude  of  gold,  they  hover  a  life- 
time chained  to  a  dock  and  decay  of  their 
own  uselessness  at  last,  like  keels  that  are 
mud-slugged.  It  is  not  the  most  profitable 
thing  in  the  world  to  please.  Suppose  it  shall 
please  the  inmates  of  a  bedlam-house  to  see 
you  set  fire  to  your  clothing  and  burn  to 
death,  or  break  your  bones  one  by  one  upon 
a  rack,  or  otherwise  destroy  your  bodily 
parts  that  the  poor  lunatics  might  be  enter- 
tained. Would  it  pay  to  be  pleasing  to 
such  an  audience  at  such  a  sacrifice?  But 
the  destruction  of  the  loveliest  body  in  the 
world  is  nothing  compared  to  the  demorali- 
zation of  soul  that  takes  place  when  women 
subvert  everything  lofty  and  noble  within 
their  nature  to  win  the  transient  regard  of 
a  few  worthless  men  of  the  world.  They 
learn  to  smoke  cigarettes  because  such  men 
profess  to  like  to  see  a  pretty  woman  affect 
the  toughness  of  a  rowdy.  They  drink  in 
public  places  and  barter  their  honor  all  too 
often  for  handsome  clothes  in  which  to 
make  a  vain  parade,  all  to  please  some 
heathen  man,  who  in  reality  counts  them  a 
great  way  inferior  to  the  value  of  a  good 
horse.  The  right  sort  of  a  sweetheart,  my 
dear,  never  desires  to  bring  a  woman  down 


62 


to  his  own  level.  He  prefers  to  put  her  on  a 
pedestal  and  say  his  prayers  to  her.  Never 
think  that  you  are  winning  an  admiration 
that  counts  for  much  if  you  have  to  abate 
one  whit  of  your  womanhood  to  win  it. 
Every  time  I  see  a  woman  drinking  in  a 
public  resort,  making  herself  conspicuous 
by  loud  talk  and  louder  laughter,  I  think  of 
some  fair  ship  that  should  be  making  for 
the  eternal  city,  with  all  its  snow-white 
canvas  set,  rotting  at  its  docks,  or  cruising, 
arm's  length  from  a  barren  land.  We  were 
put  into  this  world  with  a  clean  way  bill 
for  another  port  than  this.  Across  the  ocean 
of  life  our  way  lies,  straight  to  the  harbor 
of  the  city  of  gold.  We  are  freighted  with 
a  consignment  from  quarter-deck  to  keel 
which  is  bound  to  be  delivered  sooner  or 
later  at  the  great  master's  wharf.  Let  us 
be  alert,  then,  to  recognize  the  seriousness 
of  our  own  destinies  and  content  ourselves 
no  longer  with  shallow  soundings.  Spread 
the  sails,  weigh  the  anchor  and  point  the 
prow  for  the  country  that  lies  the  other  side 
a  deep  and  restless  sea.  Sooner  or  later  the 
voyage  must  be  made;  let  us  make  it,  then, 
while  the  timber  is  stanch  and  the  rudder 
true.  With  a  resolute  will  at  the  wheel,  and 


tmfc      u«*       63 


the  great  God  himself  to  furnish  the  chart, 
our  ship  shall  weather  the  wildest  gale  and 
find  entrance  at  last  to  the  harbor  of  peace. 


When  you  look  at  a  picture  and  find  it 
good  or  bad,  as  the  case  may  be,  whom  do 
you  praise  or  blame — the  owner  of  the  pic- 
ture or  the  artist  who  painted  it?  When  you 
hear  a  strain  of  music  and  are  either  lifted 
to  heaven  or  cast  into  the  other  place  by  its 
harmonies  or  its  discord,  whom  do  you 
thank  or  curse  for  the  benefaction  or  the 
infliction,  whichever  it  may  have  proved  to 
be — the  man  who  wrote  the  score  or  the 
music  dealer  who  sold  it?  You  go  to  a 
restaurant  and  order  spring  chicken  which 
turns  out  to  be  the  primeval  fowl.  Who  is 
to  blame — the  waiter  who  serves  it  or  the 
business  man  of  the  concern  who  does  the 
marketing?  And  so  when  you  encounter 
the  bad  boy,  whom  do  you  hold  responsible 
for  his  badness — the  boy  himself  or  the 
mother  who  trained  him?  I  declare,  as  I 
look  about  me  from  day  to  day  and  see  the 
men  and  women  who  play  so  poor  a  part  in 
life,  it  is  not  the  poverty  of  their  perform- 


64 


ance  that  astonishes  me  so  much  as  the  fact 
that  it  is  as  good  as  it  is. 


I  did  think  I  would  keep  out  of  the  con- 
troversy on  the  low-neck  dress  question. 
But  there  is  just  one  thing  I  want  to  say. 
Did  you  ever  know  a  sweet  young  girl  yet, 
one  who  was  rightly  trained  and  modestly 
brought  up,  who  took  to  decollete  dresses 
naturally?  Is  not  the  first  wearing  of  one 
a  trial,  and  a  special  ordeal?  It  is  after  the 
bloom  is  off  the  peach  that  a  young  wom- 
an is  willing  to  show  her  pretty  shoulders 
and  neck  to  the  crowd ;  and  who  cares  much 
for  a  rubbed  plum  or  a  brushed  peach? 
I  cannot  imagine  a  sweet,  wholesome-heart- 
ed woman,  be  she  young  or  old,  divesting 
herself  of  half  her  clothes  and  thrusting 
herself  upon  the  notice  of  ribald  men.  I 
can  sooner  imagine  a  rose  tree  bearing 
frog.  The  conjunction  is  not  possible.  The 
cheek  that  will  blush  at  the  story  of  repent- 
ant shame,  that  will  flame  with  indignant 
protest  when  the  skirts  of  a  Magdalene 
brush  too  near,  yet  deepens  not  its  rose  at 
thought  of  uncovering  neck  and  bust  in  a 


anft     uje*      65 


crowded  theater  or  public  reception  is  not 
the  cheek  of  modest  and  natural  woman- 
hood. It  is  not  necessary  to  be  a  prude  or 
a  skinny  old  harridan  either,  to  inveigh 
against  the  custom.  I  know  full  well  how 
contemptible  the  affectations  and  hypoc- 
risies of  life  are.  Half  that  is  yielded  to  evil 
was  meant  for  good.  The  high  chancellor 
of  Hades  has  put  his  seal  on  much  that  was 
originally  invoiced  for  the  Lord's  own  peo- 
ple. But  there  are  some  things  so  palpably 
shameless  that  to  argue  about  them  is  like 
trying  to  prove  by  demonstration  that  a 
crow  is  white.  It  needs  no  argument. 


THE  VETERANS. 

Scarce  had  the  bugle  note  sounded 
For  the  call  of  their  last  defeat; 

And  still  on  the  lowland  meadow 
Lie  the  prints  of  their  quick  retreat. 

Above  us  the  bright  skies  sparkle, 
And  around  us  the  same  winds  blow 

That  rippled  their  golden  banners 
In  that  battle  so  long  ago, 

When  the  southwind  challenged  winter, 

And  the  rose-ranks  routed  the  snow. 
And  the  hosts  of  tiny  gold  coats 

Spransr  up  from  their  campflres  below, 
6 


66 


To  charge  on  the  insolent  frost  king, 
And  shatter  his  lance  of  ice, 

While  back  to  the  desolate  northland 
They  wheeled  him  about  in  a  trice. 

The  battle  is  hardly  ended, 

The  victory  only  begun, 
Yet  I  saw  the  gray-bearded  vet'rans, 

To-day,  sitting  out  in  the  sun. 

They  nod  by  wind-rippled  rivers, 
They  shake  in  the  shade  of  the  oak, 

And  all  the  day  long  they  murmur 
And  whisper,  and  gossip,  and  croak. 

And  often  in  wondering  rapture, 
They  recount  the  charge  they  made, 

When  down  from  the  windy  hillsides, 
And  up  through  the  dewy  glade, 

The  sheen  of  their  golden  bonnets 
Shone  out  from  the  green  of  the  leaves, 

Like  the  flight  of  a  glancing  swallow, 
Or  the  flash  of  a  wave  on  the  seas. 

They  muse  in  sleepy  contentment, 

Or  flutter  in  endless  dispute. 
For  this  was  a  brave  cadet,  sir, 

And  that  one  a  crippled  recruit. 

Fight  over  again  your  battles, 
O  veterans,  withered  and  gray; 

For  a  band  of  northwind  chasseurs 
To-morrow  shall  blow  you  away. 


67 


Once  upon  a  time  it  came  to  pass  that  a 
woman,  being  weary  with  much  running  to 
and  fro,  fell  asleep  and  dreamed  a  dream. 

And  in  her  dream  she  beheld  a  mighty 
host,  more  than  man  could  number.  And 
of  that  host,  all  were  women,  and  spake 
with  varying  tongues. 

And  they  bent  the  body,  and  sitting  on 
hard  benches  wailed  mightily,  so  that  the  air 
was  full  of  the  sound  of  lamentation,  like  a 
garden  that  wooeth  many  bees. 

And  the  woman  who  dreamed,  being  ten- 
der of  heart  and  disposed  kindly  toward 
the  suffering  ones,  lifted  up  her  voice  say- 
ing: 

"Why  bendest  thou  the  body,  oh,  daugh- 
ters of  despair,  and  why  art  thine  eyelids 
red  with  tears? 

"Yea,  why  rockest  thou  like  boats  that 
find  no  anchor,  and  like  poplars  which  the 
north  wind  smiteth?" 

And  one  from  among  the  host  greater 
than  man  could  number  made  answer,  say- 
ing: 

"Wouldst  know  who  we  are,  and  why  we 
spend  our  days  like  a  weaver's  shuttle  that 
flitteth  to  and  fro  in  a  web  of  tears? 

"Behold  we  are  the  faithless  and  unregen- 


68          0#jemariu  cmfc 


erate  handmaids  who  have  served  thee,  and 
women  like  unto  thee,  bringing  desolation 
unto  thy  larders,  and  gray  hairs  among  the 
braids  with  which  nature  hath  crowned 
thee. 

"Yea,  verily,  by  reason  of  our  misde- 
meanors lift  we  the  voice  of  lamentation  in 
a  land  that  knoweth  not  comfort." 

Now,  the  woman  who  dreamed,  being 
full  of  amazement,  replied  anon,  and  these 
were  the  words  that  fell  from  her  lips  : 

"Sayest  thou  so?  And  dwellest  thou  and 
thy  sisters  in  Hades  by  reason  of  the  evil 
thou  hast  wrought?" 

"Nay,  not  forever,"  replied  she  who  had 
spoken.  "We  remain  but  for  a  season,  that 
our  remorse  may  cleanse  our  record  before 
we  go  hence  to  sit  with  the  blessed  ones 
in  glory. 

"Not  from  everlasting  unto  everlasting  is 
the  duration  of  the  penalty  we  pay  for  what 
we  have  done  unto  thee,  else  were  there  no 
peace  between  the  stars  by  reason  of  our 
torment  and  our  tears." 

And  the  woman  who  dreamed  beheld 
many  whose  fame  yet  lingered  within  the 
shadows  of  her  home. 

There  was  Ann,  the  fumble-witted,  who 


69 


piled  the  backyard  high  with  broken  china, 
yet  stayed  not  her  hand  when  rebuked 
therefor. 

There  was  Sarah,  the  high-headed,  who 
refused  to  clean  the  paint  because  she  had 
dwelt  long  in  the  tents  of  such  as  hired  the 
housecleaning  done  by  other  hands,  that 
the  labors  of  the  handmaid  might  be  few  ; 

Yea,  verily,  with  such  as  believed  that 
Sarah  and  her  ilk  might  have  time  wherein 
to  be  merry  rather  than  toil. 

There  was  Karen,  the  Swede,  who 
wrapped  the  bread  in  her  petticoat  and  re- 
fused to  be  convinced  of  the  error  of  her 
ways. 

There  was  Jane,  the  Erinite,  who  broke 
the  pump,  and  Caroline,  the  Teuton,  who 
combed  her  locks  with  the  comb  of  the 
woman  who  dreamed. 

There  was  Adaline,  the  hoosier,  who 
failed  to  answer  the  summons  of  the  strang- 
er who  knocked  at  the  gates  unless  she  were 
in  full  dress  and  carried  a  perfumed  hand- 
kerchief. 

There  was  Louise,  who  smote  the  young- 
est born  of  the  household  because  he  prat- 
tled of  her  dealings  with  the  frequent  cousin 
who  called  often  and  sought  to  deplete  the 
larder. 


There  was  the  girl  who  desired  her  even- 
ings out  and  never  came  home  before  cock 
crow. 

There  was  the  girl  who  threw  up  her 
place  in  the  family  of  the  woman  who 
dreamed  because  she  was  asked  to  hurry 
her  ways. 

There  was  the  girl  who  wore  the  hose  of 
her  mistress,  and  took  it  as  an  affront  when 
asked  to  desist. 

There  was  the  girl  who  swore  when  the 
chariot  of  the  sometime  guest  drew  nigh, 
and  likewise  the  girl  who  refused  to  remain 
over  night  in  a  dwelling  where  she  was  sum- 
moned to  serve  by  means  of  a  call  bell. 

There  was  the  girl  who  found  it  too  lone- 
some in  the  country  and  left  the  garments 
in  the  washtub  that  she  might  hie  her  to  the 
great  city,  the  social  center  of  which  she 
was  the  joy  and  the  pride. 

There  was  the  girl  who  was  made  mad 
by  means  of  the  request  that  she  wash  her 
hands  before  breakfast. 

There  was  the  girl  who  entertained  her 
callers  in  the  drawing-room  while  the  fam- 
ily was  afar  off,  sojourning  in  the  hills  or  by 
the  waves  of  the  sea; 

Yea,  who  thought  it  no  evil  to  bring  forth 


cmfc    frtte*       n 


the  flesh-pot  and  the  brandied  comfit,  that 
the  heart  of  the  district  policeman  might 
leap  thereat,  as  the  young  buck  leapeth  at 
sight  of  the  water  courses. 

There  was  also  the  girl  who  wasted,  and 
the  girl  who  stole  ;  the  girl  who  never  tried, 
and  the  girl  who  never  cared. 

And  seeing  the  multitude  the  spirit  of  the 
woman  who  dreamed  arose  within  her  and 
she  asked  of  a  certain  veiled  one  who 
seemed  to  be  in  charge  : 

"Tell  me,  O  shrouded  one,  is  there  never 
to  be  any  diminution  in  the  throng  that 
cometh  to  take  their  abode  in  these  halls  of 
penitential  regret?" 

And  the  spirit  in  charge  made  answer, 
saying: 

"No,  nor  never  shall  be  while  fools  live 
and  folly  thrives. 

"It  is  by  reason  of  the  babbling  of  busy- 
bodies  that  havoc  has  overtaken  the  land 
of  thy  forefathers. 

"There  is  honor  in  faithful  service,  and 
an  uncorruptible  crown  awaiteth  the  fore- 
head of  her  who  serveth  well. 

"It  is  no  disgrace  to  the  comely  daugh- 
ters of  men  who  toil  and  are  put  to  that  they 
bring  in  the  wherewithal  to  fill  the  mouths 
of  the  children  who  call  them  father  — 


72       $£0#*nmru  ttntr 


"It  is  no  disgrace,  I  say  unto  you,  if  such 
maidens  take  unto  themselves  the  position 
of  servants  in  the  family  of  him  who  pros- 
pereth, 

"Remembering  that  one  who  lived  long 
since  and  has  slept  these  many  years  in  the 
tomb  of  his  fathers,  spake  truly  when  he  ut- 
tered these  words,  albeit  framed  in  rhyme: 

"Honor  and  shame  from  no  condition  rise; 
Act  well  your  part,  there  all  the  honor  lies." 

And  it  came  to  pass  that  the  woman  who 
dreamed  took  comfort  to  herself  by  reason 
of  her  dream. 

And  she  arose  from  slumber  like  a  strong 
man  who  desireth  to  run  a  race. 

And  buckling  on  more  tightly  the  armor 
wherein  she  moved,  yea,  even  with  a  free 
hand  buttoning  the  boot  and  drawing  the 
string,  she  cogitated  unto  herself,  and  these 
were  the  words  of  her  cogitation: 

"Behold,  I  will  learn  a  new  wisdom  that 
I  may  be  unto  my  handmaids  a  friend  rather 
than  a  taskmistress,  that  in  so  doing  I  may 
win  unto  my  household  the  damsel  who  hath 
intelligence.  And  my  treatment  of  her  shall 
be  such  that  many  wise  ones  who  call  that 
damsel  friend  shall  decide  to  do  even  as  she 


anto  l£tt«»       73 

hath  done  and  choose  domestic  service  with 
a  woman  who  is  kind  even  to  the  showing  of 
interest  in  her  handmaid's  affairs,  rather 
than  linger  in  bondage  with  the  shop  girl 
and  her  who  rattles  the  tinkling  keys  of  the 
typewriter  machine. 

"So  doing,  my  days  shall  increase  might- 
ily in  the  land,  as  also  the  days  of  her  who 
cometh  after  me." 


Women  are  either  the  noblest  creation 
of  God  or  the  meanest.  A  good  woman  is 
little  less  than  an  angel;  a  bad  woman  is 
considerably  more  than  a  devil.  And  by 
bad  women  I  do  not  mean  women  who 
drink,  or  steal,  or  frequent  brothels.  The 
chief  weapon  of  a  bad  woman  is  her  tongue. 
With  a  lie  she  can  do  more  deadly  work 
than  the  fellow  in  the  bible  did  with  the 
jawbone  of  an  ass.  Untruth  is  the  funda- 
mental strata  of  all  evil  in  a  bad  woman's 
nature,  and  with  it  she  is  more  to  be  dreaded 
than  many  men  with  revolvers.  There  is 
absolutely  no  protection  from  a  lie.  The 
courts  cannot  protect  from  its  venom,  and 
to  kill  a  defamer  and  a  falsifier  is  not  yet 
adjudged  as  legalized  slaughter. 


74 


There  is  one  awfully  homely  woman  in 
Chicago.  I  met  her  the  other  day  over  in 
Blank's  art  gallery.  Our  acquaintance  was 
brief  but  sensational.  I  looked  at  her, 
tucked  her  into  my  handbag  and  wept.  She 
didn't  seem  to  mind  it,  and  when,  a  few 
hours  later,  in  the  seclusion  of  my  chamber, 
I  took  her  out  of  the  bag  and  looked  at  her 
again,  she  was  more  hideous  than  before. 

"You  horrible  creature!"  said  I.  "If  you 
look  like  me,  better  that  the  uttermost 
depths  of  the  sea  had  me." 

"But  I  do  look  like  you,"  said  she,  and 
her  voice  was  weak  and  low  by  reason  of 
prolonged  exposure  to  the  sun  and  air,  "and 
Mr.  Blank  says  I  will  finish  up  very  nicely." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  I  asked,  "that 
my  nose  is  as  big  as  yours?" 

"Of  course  it  is,"  said  she;  "pictures  can- 
not lie.  But  comfort  yourself  with  the  as- 
surance that  a  large  nose  is  always  an  indi- 
cation of  intelligence." 

"Intelligence  be  blessed !"  said  I,  for  I  was 
getting  excited;  "intelligence  without 
beauty  is  like  bread  without  butter,  or  a  pea- 


75 


cock  without  a  tail!  If  I  possess  such  a  nose 
as  yours,  madam,  I  shall  take  to  tract-dis- 
tributing, galoshes  and  a  cotton  umbrella, 
and  forget  that  I  was  ever  human." 

"You  talk  wildly,  as  all  the  rest  of  them 
do,"  said  my  thin  companion.  "Listen,  for 
my  time  on  earth  is  short,  I  am  rapidly 
fading  away,  and  what  I  say  must  be  said 
briefly.  If  you  look  about  you  you  will  see 
that  there  exists,  more  or  less  hidden  in 
every  breast,  the  belief  of  one's  own  beauty. 
The  mirror,  although  a  faithful  friend,  can 
never  quite  disabuse  the  mind  of  that  belief, 
and  when  the  honest  camera  holds  up  the 
actual  presentation  of  one's  self  as  an  in- 
controvertible fact,  the  disappointment  is 
keen  and  hard  to  bear." 

"All  that  may  be  true,"  said  I,  "but  not  all 
your  assertions  can  ever  make  me  believe 
that  that  dusky  mass  of  hair,  brushed  back 
so  wildly  from  those  beetling  brows,  is  like 
my  own.  You  know  that  mine  is  soft  and 
brown,  and  yours  looks  like  the  bristles  of 
an  enraged  stove  brush." 

"That's  the  way  they  all  talk,"  responded 
the  dissolving  view,  "but  you  do  not  stop  to 
consider  that  under  the  artist's  pencil  the 
shadows  will  all  be  toned  and  softened. 


76 


And  let  me  say  right  here,  that  that  'beetling 
brow'  is  a  sign  of  rare  intelligence,  much 
more  to  be  desired  than  the  lower  and 
more  -  " 

"Stop,  right  there!"  I  interrupted.  "It 
is  not  necessary  to  have  a  brow  like  a 
plate-glass  show-window,  or  like  an  over- 
hanging cliff,  or  like  a  granite  paving-stone, 
to  denote  intelligence!  No,  my  friend,  do 
not  try  to  lift  this  shadow  from  my  soul. 
That  mouth  that  looks  like  a  dark  biscuit, 
that  nose  that  looks  like  a  promontory  over- 
hanging an  unseen  sea,  that  hair  that  looks 
like  the  ruff  of  an  excited  chicken,  that  brow 
that  looks  like  a  skating-rink,  all  make  me 
sad.  I  shall  never  have  my  picture  taken 
again.  If  I  look  like  that  it  is  time  I  died. 
In  the  round  of  an  eventful  life  I  may  forget 
that  I  even  saw  you,  but  until  I  do  I  am  a 
tired  woman.  My  mirror  may  assuage  my 
sorrow,  for  that  either  lies  or  catches  me 
from  a  different  point  of  view.  Vanish  then, 
oh,  yellow  shade  of  an  unhappy  reality. 
Back  to  oblivion  with  you,  and  heaven 
grant  I  never  look  upon  your  like  again!" 
So  saying,  I  calmly  held  the  poor  but  hid- 
eous creature  in  the  flame  of  a  gas-jet  and 
smilingly  cremated  her. 


77 


A  fairer  day  than  last  Sunday  was  never 
cradled  to  rest  behind  the  curtains  of  night. 
It  began  with  a  flute  obligato  of  sunrise, 
orbed  itself  into  a  full  orchestra  wherein 
color  took  the  part  of  first  and  second  vio- 
lins, and  declined  at  last  into  the  hush  of 
sunset  like  the  mellow  notes  of  a  cello  under 
old  Paul  Schessling's  master  touch.  Such 
days  visit  the  earth  rarely.  They  are  ad- 
vance sheets  of  a  story  that  is  going  to  be 
told  in  heaven;  preludes  to  a  song  that  we 
shall  hear  in  its  perfection  only  when  we 
have  got  through  with  the  clattering  dis- 
cords of  time.  Thank  God  for  all  such  days. 
They  do  us  more  good  than  we  know.  The 
sight  of  the  woods,  adorned  as  only  queens 
are  adorned  for  the  court  of  the  king,  the 
sound  of  falling  leaves  and  lonely  bird 
songs,  of  hidden  lutes,  of  unseen  brooks, 
tremulous  and  sweet  and  low  under  the  rus- 
set shadows,  uplift  our  souls  and  help  us  to 
forget,  for  the  time  being  at  least,  how  tired 
we  are,  how  worn  with  the  fret  of  sordid  toil 
and  how  tormented  and  misjudged  and  ca- 
lumniated we  are  by  those  who  fain  would 


78 

do  us  harm.  I  think  if  I  had  time  to  do 
some  of  the  things  I  want  to  do  the  first 
consummation  of  that  happy  time  would  be 
to  build  me  a  little  cabin  in  the  woods, 
where,  in  utter  loneliness,  I  could  forget 
how  full  the  world  is  growing  to  be  of  folks 
and  how  prone  they  are  to  do  each  other 
harm  and  hinder  rather  than  help  each  other 
on  the  stony  way  to  heaven. 


The  other  evening,  while  sitting  in  the 
gallery  of  the  Auditorium  and  looking  over 
the  balcony  edge  at  the  crowd  waiting  for 
the  curtain  to  rise,  a  strange  thought  came 
to  my  mind.  How  could  hell  be  more 
quickly  created  than  by  the  unmasking  of 
such  a  crowd  as  this?  Suddenly  remove 
from  humanity  all  power  of  self-control  and 
conventional  dissimulation;  force  men  and 
women  to  be  natural,  and  act  out  every  evil 
impulse  latent  in  their  souls,  and  could  Dante 
himself  portray  a  blacker  Inferno?  The 
man  whose  heart  is  full  of  murderous  ha- 
tred— tear  off  the  mask  that  hides  his  per- 
turbed soul,  and  what  a  demon  would  look 
forth!  The  woman  behind  whose  amiable 


tmfr      ttt*       79 


seeming  lurks  malicious  envy  and  snarling 
temper  and  crafty  deceit  —  what  a  pande- 
monium would  ensue  when  such  passion 
broke  forth  like  straining  dogs  from  the 
leash!  The  old  man  with  the  saintly  face 
and  the  crown  of  hoary  hair  —  could  an  open 
cage  of  foul  birds  send  forth  a  blacker 
brood  than  should  fly  out  from  his  soul 
when  some  omnipotent  hand  unlatched  the 
bars  of  its  prison  and  let  the  unclean 
thoughts  go  free?  The  young  man  with  the 
perfumed  breath  and  the  suave  and  courtly 
manner  —  does  any  storied  hell  hold  captive 
blacker  demons  than  the  cruel  selfishness, 
the  impurities  and  the  secret  vices  that  walk 
to  and  fro  in  his  soul  like  tigers  behind 
their  bars?  The  young  girl  with  face  like 
a  rose  and  the  form  of  a  Juno  —  could  any- 
thing that  hades  holds  strike  greater  dismay 
to  the  hearts  of  men  than  the  unmasking  of 
her  hidden  thoughts?  Ah,  when  the  hour 
strikes  for  unmasking  time  in  life's  parade 
ball,  when  death  steps  forth  and  with  cool, 
relentless  touch  unties  the  knot  that  holds 
the  silken  thing  in  place  that  has  hidden  our 
true  selves  from  our  beautiful  seeming,  we 
shall  find  no  more  fiery  hell  awaiting  us 
than  that  we  have  carried  so  long  in  our 
hearts. 


so 


I  would  not  like  to  be  regarded  as  a  pes- 
simist from  the  writing  of  such  a  paragraph 
as  the  above.  Sometimes  I  seek  to  turn 
my  thoughts  upon  the  crowd  and  unmask 
the  angel  as  well  as  the  demon.  But  I  find 
that  the  angels,  as  a  general  thing,  wear 
no  face  concealers.  They  go  disguised  in 
poor  clothes  and  scant  bravery  of  attire, 
but  the  angel  within  them  is  like  a  singing 
bird  rather  than  like  a  silent  and  chained 
beast  It  reveals  itself  in  songs,  like  a  caged 
lark.  It  looks  from  out  the  window  of  the 
eyes  in  loving  glances  and  tender  smiles; 
it  manifests  itself  in  sweet  and  cheerful  ser- 
vice, like  the  sunshine  that  can  neither  be 
hidden  nor  concealed. 


Of  all  the  pleasant  things  to  look  upon  in 
this  fair  earth,  I  sometimes  query  which  is 
the  best,  a  little  child,  a  fruit  orchard  in 
early  June,  or  a  young  girl.  I  think  the 
latter  carries  the  day.  Did  you  ever  watch 
a  flock  of  birds  sitting  for  a  moment  on  the 
mossy  gable  of  a  sloping  roof?  How  they 
flutter  and  fuss  and  chirp;  how  they  preen 
their  delicate  feathers  and  get  all  mixed  up 


with  the  sunshine  and  the  shadow,  until 
which  is  bird  and  which  is  sunbeam  one 
can  scarcely  tell.  There  is  a  flock  of  girls 
with  whom  I  ride  every  morning,  and  they 
make  me  think  of  birds  and  sunbeams. 
They  are  so  bewitching  with  their  changeful 
moods  and  graces  that  I  sit  and  watch  them 
as  one  listens  to  the  twitter  of  swallows. 
They  sweeten  up  life,  these  girls,  as  sugar 
sweetens  dough;  they  fill  it  with  music  as 
sleigh  bells  fill  a  winter  night.  God  bless 
the  girls,  the  bonnie,  sweet  and  winsome 
girls,  and  may  womanhood  be  for  them  but 
as  the  "swell  of  some  sweet  time,"  morning 
gliding  into  noon,  May  merging  into  June. 


There  are  so  many  things  in  this  world 
to  be  tired  of!  The  poor  little  persecuted 
boy  in  pinafores,  sent  to  school  to  get  him 
out  of  the  way,  doomed  to  dangle  his  plump 
legs  all  day  long  from  a  hard  bench,  rubbing 
his  grimy  knuckles  into  his  sleepy  blue  eyes 
and  wondering  if  eternity  can  last  any  longer 
than  a  public  school  session,  grows  no  more 
tired  of  watching  the  flies  on  the  ceiling  and 
the  shadows  on  the  wall  than  some  folks  get 

3 


82         u#*tnc*rjj  mtfc 


of  life.  Let  me  mention  a  few  of  the  things 
I,  for  one,  am  horribly  tired  of,  and  see  if 
before  my  bead  is  half  strung  you  do  not 
look  up  from  the  strand  and  cry,  "Amber,  I 
am  with  you  !" 

My  dear,  I  am  tired  to-day  of  civilization 
and  all  modern  improvements.  I  am  tired 
of  the  speaking  tube  within  my  chamber 
where  the  new  girl  and  myself  wage  daily 
our  battle  of  the  new  Babel.  She  speaks 
Volapuk,  and  I  do  not,  consequently  she 
takes  my  demand  for  coal  as  an  in- 
sult or  an  encouraging  remark,  just  as 
the  mood  may  be  upon  her,  and  pays 
no  more  attention  to  my  request  for 
drinking  water  than  the  unweaned  child 
pays  to  the  sighing  wind.  I  am  tired 
of  sewer  gas  and  what  the  scientists  call 
"bacteria"  and  "germs."  I  am  tired  of  going 
about  with  frescoed  tonsils,  the  result  of  the 
three.  I  am  tired  of  gargling  my  own  throat 
and  the  throats  of  my  helpless  babes,  and 
the  throat  of  the  casual  visitor  within  my 
gates,  with  diluted  phenic  acid  to  ward  off 
deadly  disease.  I  am  tired  of  nosing  drains 
and  buying  copperas  and  hounding  the 
latent  plumber  that  he  adjust  the  water- 
pipes.  I  am  tired  of  boiling  the  cistern 


tmfc    frtt*      83 


water  and  waiting  for  it  to  cool.  I  am  tired 
of  skipping  from  Dan  to  Beersheba  daily  for 
men  to  remove  the  tin-cans,  the  ashes  and 
the  unsightly  rubbish  that  have  emerged 
from  long  retirement  underneath  the  snow. 
I  am  tired  of  imploring  the  small  boy  to 
keep  his  mother's  chickens  off  my  porch. 
I  am  tired  of  digging  graves  upon  the  com- 
mon wherein  to  bury  useless  potato-parings, 
the  unsightly  cheese-rind,  and  the  shattered 
egg-shell.  I  am  tired  of  being  told  that  my 
neighbor's  calf  and  my  neighbor's  pet  cat, 
and  my  neighbor's  blooded  stock  of  poultry 
are  dying  because  of  the  copperas  I  scatter 
broadcast  about  the  mouth  of  drains.  I  am 
tired  of  being  a  martyr  to  hygiene  and  a 
monomaniac  on  the  subject  of  sanitary- 
science.  I  am  tired  of  sharpening  lead  pen- 
cils. I  am  tired  of  speaking  pleasantly  when 
I  want  to  be  cross.  I  am  tired  of  the  ceaseless 
grind  of  life,  which  like  the  upper  and  nether 
mill-stones,  wears  the  heart  to  powder  and 
the  spirit  to  dust.  I  am  tired  of  being  told 
that  the  mark  on  my  left  ear  is  a  spot  of  soil, 
and  of  being  implored  in  thrilling  whispers 
to  wipe  it  away.  I  am  tired  of  last  year's 
seed-pods  in  spring  gardens  and  of  all  two- 
legged  donkeys.  I  am  tired  of  awaiting  a 


84 

change  in  the  methods  of  doing  business 
around  at  the  postoffice,  and  for  the  dawn 
of  that  blessed  day  when  I  shall  be  permitted 
to  dance  upon  the  grave  of  the  aged  being 
who  peddles  stamps  at  the  retail  window. 
I  am  tired  of  hosts  of  things  besides,  but 
have  no  time  to  enumerate  them  all  to-day. 


I  have  tested  the  rainy  weather  dress  re- 
form. It  was  pouring  when  I  started  from 
my  humble  home  in  the  morning,  and  in 
spite  of  the  prayers  of  the  Young  Person 
and  the  sobs  of  the  "Martyr,"  I  arrayed  my- 
self in  my  new,  highly  sensible  and  demoni- 
acally ugly  suit  and  weathered  the  elements. 
Within  two  hours  it  stopped  raining;  the 
sun  came  out  and  the  streets  rilled  with 
festively  attired  men  and  women,  and  where 
was  I  ?  Stranded  on  a  clear  day  in  garments 
befitting  a  castaway!  My  flannel  dress, 
short  skirts  and  top-boots  wasted  on  fair 
weather.  "In  the  name  of  heaven,"  ex- 
claimed a  friend,  as  I  bore  down  upon  him 
beneath  a  cloudless  sky,  "what  have  you  got 
on?"  "Go  home!  for  the  love  of  humanity, 
go  home !"  said  another.  And  what  was  I  to 


85 


do?  Await  another  storm  like  a  crab  in  its 
shell,  or  venture  forth  and  become  the  by- 
word of  an  overwrought  populace,  the  scorn 
of  old  men  and  matrons?  Next  time  I  start 
out  in  a  reform  dress  I  will  take  along  the 
robes  of  civilization  in  a  grip-sack. 


There  is  something  that  is  getting  to  be 
awfully  scarce  in  this  world.  Shall  I  tell 
you  what  it  is?  It  is  girls.  That  is  what  is 
missing  out  of  the  sentient,  breathing,  living 
world  just  now.  We  have  lots  of  young  la- 
dies and  lots  of  society  misses,  but  the  sweet, 
old-fashioned  girls  of  ever  so  long  ago  are 
vanished  with  the  poke  bonnets  and  the  cin- 
namon cookies.  Let  me  enumerate  a  few 
of  the  kinds  of  girls  that  are  wanted.  In 
the  first  place  we  want  home  girls — girls 
who  are  mothers'  right  hand ;  girls  who  can 
cuddle  the  little  ones  next  best  to  mamma, 
and  smooth  out  the  tangles  in  the  domestic 
skein  when  things  get  twisted;  girls  whom 
father  takes  comfort  in  for  something  bet- 
ter than  beauty,  and  the  big  brothers  are 
proud  of  for  something  that  outranks  the 
ability  to  dance  or  shine  in  society.  Next, 
we  want  girls  of  sense — girls  who  have  a 


86 


standard  of  their  own  regardless  of  con- 
ventionalities, and  are  independent  enough 
to  live  up  to  it;  girls  who  simply  won't 
wear  a  trailing  dress  on  the  street  to  gather 
up  microbes  and  all  sorts  of  defilement; 
girls  who  won't  wear  a  high  hat  to  the 
theater,  or  lacerate  their  feet  and  endanger 
their  health  with  high  heels  and  corsets; 
girls  who  will  wear  what  is  pretty  and  be- 
coming and  snap  their  fingers  at  the  dictates 
of  fashion  when  fashion  is  horrid  and  silly. 
And  we  want  good  girls  —  girls  who  are 
sweet,  right  straight  out  from  the  heart  to 
the  lips  ;  innocent  and  pure  and  simple  girls 
with  less  knowledge  of  sin  and  duplicity 
and  evil-doing  at  twenty  than  the  pert  little 
school  girl  at  ten  has  all  too  often  ;  girls  who 
say  their  prayers  and  read  their  Bibles  and 
love  God  and  keep  his  commandments. 
(We  want  these  girls  "awful  bad  !")  And  we 
want  careful  girls  and  prudent  girls,  who 
think  enough  of  the  generous  father  who 
toils  to  maintain  them  in  comfort,  and  of  the 
gentle  mother  who  denies  herself  much  that 
they  may  have  so  many  pretty  things,  to 
count  the  cost  and  draw  the  line  between 
the  essentials  and  the  non-essentials;  girls 
who  strive  to  save  and  not  to  spend;  girls 


87 


who  are  unselfish  and  eager  to  be  a  joy  and 
a  comfort  in  the  home  rather  than  an  ex- 
pensive and  a  useless  burden.  We  want 
girls  with  hearts  —  girls  who  are  full  of  ten- 
derness and  sympathy,  with  tears  that  flow 
for  other  people's  ills,  and  smiles  that  light 
outward  their  own  beautiful  thoughts.  We 
have  lots  of  clever  girls,  and  brilliant  girls, 
and  witty  girls.  Give  us  a  consignment  of 
jolly  girls,  warm-hearted  and  impulsive 
girls;  kind  and  entertaining  to  their  own 
folks,  and  with  little  desire  to  shine  in  the 
garish  world.  With  a  few  such  girls  scat- 
tered around  life  would  freshen  up  for  all  of 
us,  as  the  weather  does  under  the  spell  of 
summer  showers.  Speed  the  day  when  this 
sort  of  girls  fill  the  world  once  more,  over- 
running the  spaces  where  God  puts  them  as 
climbing  roses  do  when  they  break  through 
the  trellis  to  glimmer  and  glint  above  the 
common  highway,  a  blessing  and  a  boon 
to  all  who  pass  them  by. 


Is  there  any  flower  that  grows  that  can 
compare  with  the  pansy  for  color  and  rich- 
ness? Others  appeal  more  closely  to  the 
heart  with  fragrance  that  like  a  sweet  and 


88 

pure  soul  more  than  compensates  for  lack 
of  exterior  beauty,  but  in  all  the  gorgeous 
category  none  rank  this  velvet  flower  that 
lies  just  now  upon  my  window-sill.  There  is 
the  purple  of  Queen  Sheba  mantled  in  its 
soft  and  shiny  texture;  the  gold  of  Ophir 
was  not  more  sumptuous;  the  light  that 
breaks  at  dawn  across  a  reef  of  dove-gray 
clouds  was  never  more  delicate  than  the 
violet  heart  of  this  lovely  blossom.  When  I 
want  to  think  of  the  ideal  court  of  kings,  of 
a  royal  meeting-place  for  blameless  scions 
and  unsullied  princes  of  the  blood,  I  do  not 
think  of  old-world  palaces  and  coronation 
hails — I  think  rather  of  a  pansy  bed  in  June 
in  full  and  perfect  bloom,  a  soft  wind  just 
bending  bright  heads  crowned  with  crowns 
that  never  yet  were  pressed  on  aching 
brows,  and  fluttering  mantles  of  more  than 
royal  splendor  that  never  yet  were  wrapped 
above  a  corrupt  and  breaking  heart. 


MY  ROSE  ASX5  MY  CHILD. 

I  held  in  mr  bosom  a  beautiful  rose, 
All  gay  with,  the  splendor  of  June; 

Its  dew-laden  petals  like  sheen  of  soft  snows, 
Its  blush  like  the  sunshine  at  noon. 


tmfr      u*«       89 


But  e'en  as  I  held  it.  I  knew  it  must  fade  ; 

Its  bloom  was  as  brief  as  the  hour. 
The  dews  of  the  evening  like  soft  tears  were 
laid 

On  the  grave  of  my  beauteous  flower. 

I  held  in  my  bosom  a  beautiful  child, 

The  splendor  of  love  in  her  eyes; 
No  snow  on  high  hills  was  more  undefiled 

Than  her  soul  in  its  innocent  guise. 

But  I  knew  that  my  angel  in  heaven  was  missed  ; 

I  knew,  like  my  rose,  she  must  go  ; 
So  with  heartbreak  and  anguish  her  sweet  lips 
I  kissed  — 

She  sleeps  with  my  rose  in  the  snow. 


It  was  not  so  very  long  ago  that  I 
chanced  to  overhear  a  lively  young  woman 
make  this  remark  about  her  mother : 

"Oh,  mamma  is  nearly  always  taken  for 
my  sister.  She  never  seems  like  anything 
more  than  one  of  my  girl  friends." 

Poor  child,  thought  I,  your  state  is  only 
another  phase  of  orphanhood,  for  the  yatmg 
life  that  has  no  counsel  of  motherhood  is 
bereft  indeed. 

No  girlish  comradeship,  hcnvever  juvenile 
and  delightful  it  may  be,  can  possibly  take 
the  place  of  protecting,  counseling,  mother- 


oo       loecmitrit  ant* 


love.  Not  but  what  the  sweetest  relation- 
ship possible  exists  where  the  mother  keeps 
her  heart  young  and  in  sympathy  with  her 
daughter,  but  there  is  something  else  requi- 
site to  mother-love. 

The  best  mothers  are  those  who  have 
roomy  laps  where  the  big  girls  love  to  sit 
while  they  whisper  the  confidences  they 
never  could  reveal  to  sister-mothers.  They 
have  all-enfolding  arms,  these  right  kind  of 
mothers,  wherein  they  gather  the  tired  girl, 
yes,  and  the  tired  boys,  too,  and  rock  them 
to  rest  and  peace,  long  after  their  "feet  touch 
the  floor." 

They  used  to  tell  me  I  must  never  sit  on 
anybody's  lap  after  my  feet  reached  the  car- 
pet, but,  thank  God,  that  rule  never  applied 
to  my  mother. 

You  are  never  afraid  of  disturbing  moth- 
er's "beauty  sleep"  when  you  come  in  late 
at  night  if  she  is  of  the  good  reliable  sort,  as 
far  removed  from  frisky  girl  companion- 
ship as  the  moon  is  from  its  reflection. 

No  matter  how  tardy  your  home-faring 
may  be  she  is  always  up  with  a  lunch  and  a 
warm  fire  in  winter  or  a  glass  of  something 
cool  and  fresh  in  summer  to  soothe  your 
overexcited  nerves,  a  thing  she  cannot  do  if 


01 

she  is  forever  dancing  about  with  you  in 
your  youthful  larks.  She  has  a  way  of  calm- 
ing your  tempers  with  a  joke  and  a  caress,  of 
which  the  sister-mother  never  dreams.  She 
has  also  a  way  of  smoothing  your  hair, 
which  your  girl  comrade  never  caught  the 
trick  of,  for  the  reason  that  she  is  kept  too 
busy  curling  her  own  love-locks.  When 
your  head  aches,  the  right  sort  of  mother 
knows  just  how  to  pet  you  to  sleep  and 
leave  you  in  a  darkened  room  with  a  rose 
on  your  pillow  to  greet  your  waking  eyes; 
if  you  have  a  bad  cold  she  knows  the  cuddly 
way  to  coax  you  to  take  bitter  medicine. 
She  bathes  your  feet  and  dries  them  on  nice 
warm  towels.  She  keeps  the  younger  chil- 
dren from  guying  you,  because  your  nose  is 
red;  in  short,  she  does  a  thousand  nice 
things  of  which  the  sister-mother  has  no 
knack  whatever. 

When  great  trouble  falls  to  your  share, 
when  sharp  betrayal  pierces  your  heart,  and 
trusted  affection  turns  to  ashes  in  your  hold 
of  what  good  is  the  juvenile  mother  with 
her  girlish  tremors  and  tears?  You  want 
somebody  next  in  tenderness  to  God,  to 
hold  you  fast  and  tight.  You  want  some- 
body who  has  suffered  and  grown  strong, 


92 


to  soothe  your  breaking  heart.  Somebody 
who  can  be  silent  and  brave  and  steady 
until  your  fever  is  passed.  The  shipwrecked 
sailor  wants  a  rope  rather  than  a  feint  of 
throwing  one;  the  shipwrecked  soul  wants 
a  heart  like  rock,  rather  than  a  handclasp 
and  a  promise.  The  sister-mother  may  be 
all  right  to  go  to  parties  with,  but  you  want 
something  stronger  and  more  steadfast  to 
lean  upon  in  time  of  perplexity.  You  want 
a  mother  in  all  the  holy  significance  of  the 
name.  However  sweet  the  tie  of  sisterhood, 
it  cannot  be  so  blessed  as  the  bond  of  pa- 
tient, long-suffering,  sanctified  motherhood. 
Seek  to  keep  yourself  in  sympathy  with 
your  girls,  then,  mothers,  but  be  content  to 
occupy  a  generation  removed  from  the  path 
they  tread.  Don't  make  up  in  emulation  of 
their  beauty;  don't  seek  to  win  away  their 
beaus  and  outdress  them.  Don't  go  decol- 
lete to  parties  where  your  girls  should  be 
the  reigning  belles;  don't  aim  to  vie  with 
them  in  fascination  or  in  charm.  Be  guider 
and  ready  counselor,  but  don't  try  to  be 
rival.  If  God  has  given  you  a  girl  child,  and 
that  child  has  grown  to  womanhood,  accept 
the  condition  of  things  and  give  over  being 
a  society  belle  yourself,  abdicating  your 


93 


place  for  the  infinitely  sweeter  one  of  moth- 
er. You  cannot  be  the  right  sort  of  mother 
and  ignore  your  duty  to  your  child.  That 
duty  lies  in  giving  her  her  rightful  place  in 
the  line  of  march  from  which  you  are  crowd- 
ed out.  Let  her  carry  the  banner  while  you 
fall  back  a  little.  Watch  over  her,  make 
things  easy  for  her,  smooth  the  little  diffi- 
culties out  of  her  way,  be  on  hand  when  she 
comes  home  tired  and  excited  to  soothe 
her  to  rest  and  calm;  counsel  her  how  to 
pick  her  way  through  the  snares  that  are 
laid  for  youth  and  beauty,  be  a  refuge  where 
she  can  run  when  the  rainy  weather  sets 
in,  which  is  sure  to  fall  in  the  summer  time 
of  youth,  somewhere  and  somehow.  In 
short,  be  just  as  sympathetic  and  chummy 
and  sociable  as  possible,  but  at  the  same 
time  make  your  daughter  feel  that  you  are 
older  and  stronger  and  wiser  than  she,  by 
reason  of  your  motherhood,  and  that  next 
to  God  you  stand  ready  to  shield  her,  to 
guide  her,  to  receive  her  in  time  of  trouble, 
to  forgive  her  if  she  needs  forgiveness,  and 
to  shrive  her  if  she  needs  confessing.  Teach 
her  that  your  love  can  never  fail,  that  your 
heart  is  a  rock  and  a  fortress  and  a  shield 
for  her  to  seek  in  all  life's  bewilderment,  far 


94 

surer  and  more  steadfast  than  any  other  love 
beneath  the  stars  can  ever  yield. 

When  I  think  of  all  it  means  to  be  a  moth- 
er I  tremble  to  think  how  far  short  of  the 
standard  the  best  of  us  fall.  I  would  rather 
have  it  said  of  me  when  I  die,  "She  was  a 
good  mother,"  than  that  men  should  get 
together  and  exploit  my  deeds  as  poet,  re- 
former, artist  or  story-teller.  I  would  rather 
feel  the  dewfall  of  a  child's  loving  tear  upon 
my  face  than  wear  a  laureate's  crown. 

Don't  be  critical,  or  censorious,  or  re- 
served with  your  daughters;  don't  hold 
them  far  off  and  cultivate  respect  and  fear 
rather  than  love;  don't  be  self-assertive  and 
cause  them  to  feel  their  dependence  upon 
you  in  an  unpleasant  way;  don't  be  too 
eager  to  keep  them  in  the  background  in 
'little  things  relating  to  the  home,  such  as 
giving  them  no  voice  in  the  arrangement 
of  the  room  and  the  domestic  regulations. 
Indeed,  I  have  known  more  attrition  caused 
in  the  home  circle  from  this  last  mentioned 
point  of  difference  between  mother  and 
daughters  than  almost  any  other.  I  know 
a  family,  presided  over  by  a  good,  unselfish 
woman,  who,  as  a  mother,  is  the  most  com- 
plete failure  I  ever  ran  across.  Her  daugh- 


ttttfc      tt*»       95 


ter  is  of  mature  age  and  pronounced  opin- 
ions, but  she  is  kept  in  the  background  and 
her  life  rendered  most  unhappy  by  the  dom- 
inant will  of  the  mother  whose  old-fashioned 
views  as  to  running  the  house  are  directly 
opposed  to  more  modern  customs.  The  two 
wrangle  continually  over  the  establishment 
of  a  dinner  hour,  the  disposal  of  a  light,  the 
drapery  of  a  window,  the  adjustment  of  fur- 
niture, until  there  is  less  harmony  under  the 
roof  than  there  is  music  in  a  hurdy-gurdy. 
How  much  better  it  would  be  if  that  mother 
would  yield  a  little  to  the  wishes  of  her1 
daughter;  give  the  latter  a  chance  to  display 
her  own  taste  and  carry  out  her  inclination. 
I  don't  believe  in  the  mothers  and  fathers 
of  grown-up  daughters  always  insisting 
upon  the  occupancy  of  the  front  seats  and 
the  leadership  of  the  orchestra. 

The  mother  who  can  preserve  the  respect 
of  her  children  without  chilling  their  love; 
who  can  be  one  with  them,  and  yet  apart, 
in  the  sense  of  guiding,  aiding  and  consol- 
ing, who  can  hold  their  confidence  while  she 
maintains  the  superiority  of  her  wisdom,  is 
the  happy  and  successful  mother.  The  title 
is  a  sacred  one,  made  by  the  chrism  of 
pain  and  suffering,  sanctified  by  the  hu- 


96 

manhy  of  Christ  and  set  apart  as  one  of  the 
three  of  earth's  tenderest  utterances:  "Moth- 
er, home  and  heaven." 


Now  that  the  days  draw  nigh  for  the  re- 
turn of  the  birds  to  our  northern  woods  and 
dales  it  is  borne  in  upon  me  to  hold  a  little 
"love  feast"  with  the  boys.  You  know  what 
a  love  feast  is,  if  there  was  ever  a  Methodist 
in  your  family.  It  is  a  good,  cozy  talk 
among  the  brethren  and  sisters  in  regard 
to  the  best  way  of  putting  down  the  devil, 
and  giving  the  good  angels  a  chance.  And  if 
there  was  ever  need  of  downing  the  devil  it 
is  in  the  particular  instance  of  a  boy's  in- 
humanity to  birds  and  beasts.  I  have  ex- 
pressed myself  as  to  horses,  and  to-day  I 
shall  talk  about  birds.  On  these  spring 
mornings,  when  the  world  is  enveloped  in  a 
golden  halo,  from  out  of  which,  like  angel 
voices  from  the  quiet  depths  of  heaven,  the 
birds  are  singing  their  impromptu  of  praise, 
imagine  a  lot  of  half-grown  men  and  brutal 
boys  going  forth  with  guns  and  sling-shots 
to  break  up  the  concert  and  murder  the 
choristers.  I  would  as  soon  turn  a  lot  of 


97 


sharp-shooters  into  a  cathedral  at  early  mass 
to  bring  down  the  surpliced  boys  and  the 
chanting  novices.  I  tell  you,  O  race  of 
good-for-nothing  fathers  and  mothers, 
whom  God  holds  directly  responsible  for 
the  bad  boys  who  desecrate  this  beautiful 
world,  you  are  no  more  fit  for  the  training 
of  immortal  souls  than  a  hawk  is  fitted  to 
teach  music  to  a  thrush.  You  ought  to  have 
had  a  bear-skin  and  been  the  trainer  of  cubs. 
That  your  boys  develop  into  brutes  and  go 
to  state's  prison,  and  perhaps  die  at  the  end 
of  a  rope  eventually,  is  nobody's  fault  but 
your  own.  If  you  chance  to  own  a  horse 
or  a  dog  you  show  some  care  in  its  training, 
but  God  gives  you  a  boy  and  you  let  him 
run  wild.  There  is  no  more  reason  why  a 
boy  should  be  cruel  than  that  a  properly- 
broken  colt  should  kick.  The  tendency 
may  have  been  born  with  him,  but  good 
training  eliminates  it  to  a  great  extent,  if 
not  entirely.  When  I  was  a  woman  and 
lived  at  home,  in  the  happy  days  before  I 
entered  the  arena  to  fight  for  bread  and  but- 
ter, to  say  nothing  of  shoe  leather  and  fuel, 
I  used  to  gather  the  village  boys  about  me 
every  spring  and  try  to  sow  the  good  seeds 
of  tenderness  with  one  hand,  while  carefully 


eliminating  the  tares  with  the  other.  I  of- 
fered prizes  for  the  best  record  at  the  end 
of  the  summer.  I  formed  classes,  the  mem- 
bership of  which  pledged  themselves,  to  a 
boy,  to  abstain  from  sling-shots,  to  cultivate 
the  birds'  nests  and  to  withhold  their  hands 
from  the  commission  of  a  single  deed  of 
cruelty.  Many  is  the  gallon  of  ice-cream 
I  have  paid  for  to  keep  those  youngsters 
in  the  narrow  path  of  rectitude,  and  many 
is  the  time  that  I  have  patroled  the  woods 
with  my  boy  comrades,  keeping  watch  over 
the  family  of  a  blue-bird  or  a  robin,  when  the 
alarm  went  forth  that  some  unregenerate 
boy  was  on  the  rampage.  All  the  boys 
whom  I  could  get  to  join  the  club  I  was  sure 
of,  for  I  know  the  way  to  a  boy's  heart,  if  I 
can  only  get  the  chance  at  him.  For  what 
other  purpose  did  nature  turn  me  out  a  born 
cook?  And  why  did  she  make  me  a  master 
hand  at  doughnuts  and  turnover  pies?  I 
have  a  large  and  undying  faith  in  the  boys, 
if  you  will  only  start  them  right.  The  first 
thing  a  boy  needs  is  a  good  mother.  He 
can  get  along  without  a  father — and  I  was 
going  to  say  without  a  God — for  the  first 
few  years  of  his  life,  but  he  needs  a  mother. 
Not  a  mere  nurse  maid  to  look  after  his 


99 

clothes  and  see  that  he  has  plenty  to  eat 
at  the  right  intervals,  but  a  good,  sweet, 
companionable  mother,  with  a  good,  soft 
breast  for  him  to  cry  on  and  two  arms  to 
hug  him  with.  He  needs  a  mother  who 
can  talk  with  him  and  answer  his  questions, 
who  is  not  stern  and  severe,  but  responsive 
and  get-at-able.  With  such  a  mother  our 
boys  will  be  gentle  and  our  birds  will  be 
safe. 

Try  to  think,  boys,  what  a  world  this 
would  be  without  any  robins,  or  larks,  or 
thrushes;  without  any  songs  in  the  apple 
trees  getting  all  tangled  up  with  the  sun- 
shine and  the  blossoms;  without  any  ca- 
naries to  sing  in  the  window,  or  any  meadow 
larks  to  whip  out  their  flutes  among  the  clo- 
ver heads.  If  you  should  wake  up  some 
morning  and  experience  the  ghastly  silence 
of  a  songless  world  you  would  want  to  hire 
somebody  to  thrash  you  that  you  ever  used 
a  sling-shot.  Do  you  remember  the  minis- 
ter down  New  York  way  whom  they  fined 
for  shooting  robins?  I  never  wanted  to  get 
up  on  a  mountain  top  so  much  in  all  my 
life  and  shout  glory  as  I  did  over  that  ver- 
dict. I  have  heard  of  immorality  among 
ministers,  and  I  have  heard  of  hypocrisy 


ioo 

and  lying  and  all  sorts  of  offenses  against 
good  taste  and  morals,  but  I  never  heard 
of  anything  so  contemptibly  and  causelessly 
mean  as  for  one  of  God's  especial  teachers 
to  get  up  in  the  morning,  put  on  top  boots, 
cross  the  river  in  the  sunshine  and  dew  of 
early  morning,  lift  his  gun,  take  deliberate 
aim  and  bring  down  a  robin.  If  I  was  the 
Lord  I  would  never  forgive  it.  Men  are  not 
to  blame  sometimes  when  their  blood  gets 
too  warm  and  they  do  impetuous  things,  but 
to  deliberately  descend  to  the  ignominy  of 
shooting  a  robin  and  calling  it  sport  is  to 
sink  too  low  for  justification. 

Whatever  else  you  be,  boys,  be  brave. 
If  you  must  sail  in  and  fight,  if  your  super- 
fluous zeal  is  too  much  for  you,  go  out  in 
the  field  and  square  off  at  a  bull.  There  is 
some  glory  in  whipping  anything  bigger  and 
stronger  than  yourself,  but  to  show  fight 
to  a  bird  is  a  little  too  much  like  sneaking 
out  and  tripping  up  a  cripple  in  the  dark. 
I  am  going  to  write  down  a  verse  for  you 
to  write  in  your  copy  books  this  very  day, 
and  then  good-night  to  you : 

"The  braveet  are  the  tenderest; 
The  loving  are  the  daring." 


tmfr     w**     101 


Isn't  it  heavenly  to  see  the  primrose 
around  again?  And  the  daffodils?  And 
the  hyacinths?  Last  night  I  went  home  with 
a  rose  in  my  button  which  cost  me  just  five 
cents.  At  that  rate,  by  careful  abstaining 
from  anything  more  expensive  than  a  ten- 
cent  lunch,  one  can  go  on  wearing  roses  un- 
til next  November.  The  robins  have  come 
back,  too,  and  this  morning  a  couple  of  them 
awoke  me  with  their  "Cheer-up"  song.  The 
indications  are  that  they  are  prospecting  for 
spring  housekeeping.  If  the  cat  kills  them 
I  shall  kill  the  cat.  I  shall  close  my  eyes 
and  do  the  deed  in  the  name  of  mercy,  for  I 
detest  cats,  both  two-legged  and  four- 
legged,  and  I  love  robins  both  feathered  and 
human. 


I  wonder  why  it  is  that  the  average 
woman  can  walk  and  talk,  breathe  and 
laugh,  suffer  and  cry,  and  finally  die  and  be 
buried,  and  all  the  way  through  make  such 
a  botch  of  her  life!  Why  is  it  that  we  fall 
in  love,  so  many  of  us,  just  on  the  verge  of 


102 

a  life  that  opens  like  a  summer's  day,  and 
change  that  life  thereby,  as  a  June  morning 
is  changed  when  great  clouds  rush  into  the 
sky  and  obscure  the  sun?  Why  are  girls  so 
proud  to  parade  an  engagement  ring  upon 
their  finger,  when  the  diamond  is  too  often 
the  danger-light  thrown  out  above  the 
breakers?  Now  and  then,  about  as  rarely  as 
one  picks  up  a  ruby  on  the  highway,  or  finds 
an  enchanted  swan  circling  over  the  duck 
pond,  there  is  a  happy  marriage — at  least 
such  is  the  popular  inference — as  to  the  ab- 
solute certainty  of  the  statement,  ask  the 
skeleton  closet.  I  have  lived  a  varied  sort  oi 
life.  I  have  wandered  to  and  fro  over  the 
earth  to  some  extent ;  I  have  known  a  great 
many  people,  and  have  found  happiness  in 
many  ways,  but  looking  back  over  all  the 
path  to-night  and  turning  my  little  bull's-eye 
lantern  of  experience  up  to  the  present  mo- 
ment, I  can  neither  remember  nor  record  a 
dozen  truly  happy  marriages.  What  consti- 
tutes happiness?  Peace.  What  brings  peace? 
Content.  Who  is  contented?  Not  you  and 
not  I.  What  man  or  woman  of  all  whom  we 
know  can  we  bring  out  into  the  full  light 
of  day  and  say  of  them,  "Behold  the  con- 
tented one!  The  restful  one!  The  happy 


103 


pair!"  You,  my  dear,  have  attained  the  am- 
bition of  your  youthful  dreams.  You  have 
married  a  man  who  dresses  you  splendid- 
ly, who  gives  you  diamonds  and  never  mur- 
murs when  the  bills  come  in.  But  are  you 
happy?  Do  you  never  walk  to  and  fro  with 
the  restless  countess  in  the  sad  old  ballad, 
dreaming  of  "Alan  Percy?"  Do  you  never, 
when  all  is  still,  go  down  into  that  cemetery 
where  life's  "might  have  beens"  lie  buried 
in  graves  kept  green  forever  with  your  tears, 
and  walk  and  dream  alone?  And  you,  my 
friend,  have  married  the  man  of  your  choice. 
Is  there  nothing  in  the  handsome  exterior 
that  palls  a  bit  now  and  then  when  you  find 
how  sordid  and  meager  the  soul  is  behind 
the  smile  you  used  to  think  so  charming? 
Do  you  never  find  scorn  creeping  into  your 
heart  in  place  of  adoration  when  you  mark 
the  unpaid  bills  and  the  shiftless  endeavor 
that  strew  his  idle  way?  And  you,  sir,  have 
a  merry  and  a  pretty  wife  and  the  world  calls 
you  a  lucky  fellow.  How  many  know  of  the 
sharp  tongue  that  underlies  her  laughter  and 
the  feather-filled  head  that  never  yet  has  do- 
nated an  earnest  thought  to  the  domestic 
economy?  And  you,  my  good  sir,  have  mar- 
ried a  blue  stocking  in  the  old  acceptance 


104 


of  the  term.  She  can  swing  off  a  leader 
or  make  a  speech  on  a  rostrum  at  short  no- 
tice, but  how  would  you  like  to  rise  right  up 
here,  poor  dear,  and  tell  just  what  comfort 
lies  in  being  mated  to  a  superior  being  who 
busies  herself  with  work  which  shall  be  re- 
membered perhaps  when  the  dust  on  the 
center  table,  the  holes  in  your  stockings,  the 
discomfort  of  the  larder,  and  the  untidiness 
of  the  household  are  forgotten?  And  you, 
my  good  fellow,  have  married  a  woman  of 
"good  form."  She  never  does  an  indiscreet 
thing.  She  is  "icily  faultless"  and  splendidly 
stupid.  She  has  the  neck  of  a  swan,  the 
arms  of  a  goddess,  the  foot  of  a  patrician, 
and  the  soul  of  a  mouse!  The  scent  of  a 
wayside  lilac,  perhaps,  is  sadder  than  tears 
to  you,  old  comrade,  when  you  look  back 
across  the  years  and  see  again  the  sweet 
dead  face  of  one  you  trifled  with,  or  whom 
you  deserted  for  this  woman  with  heart  and 
body  of  snow,  a  purse  filled  with  gold  and 
a  brain  filled  with  feathers. 


There   is    entire   hopelessness   to   many 
women  in  the  blank  monotony  of  life  after 


105 


youth  is  past.  An  emotional  nature,  mercu- 
rial and  restless,  full  of  aspirations  and  long- 
ings, as  the  trees  this  perfect  month  are  full 
of  blossoms,  and,  like  the  trees,  bearing  a 
thousand  blooms  to  one  fruition,  finds  the 
destiny  prepared  for  it  almost  unendurable, 
and  often  longs  for  death  that  shall  end  all. 
Because  poverty  grinds  and  hosts  of  menial 
duties  accumulate,  because  the  walls  of  an 
unquiet  home,  made  unlovely  perhaps  by 
skeletons  that  no  skill  can  quite  conceal, 
close  like  a  dungeon  upon  hope  and  all  the 
sweet  promises  of  youth,  bright  natures 
grow  morose  and  bitter,  warm  hearts  chill 
into  apathy  and  gloom,  and  sunny  brows 
darken  under  the  cloud  of  almost  perpetual 
irritability  and  discontent.  It  is  useless  to 
preach  sermons  to  such  cases  —  as  useless 
as  to  read  a  book  of  etiquette  in  a  prison 
ward  or  comfort  the  victims  of  a  railroad  dis- 
aster with  a  treatise  upon  reform  in  the 
management  of  roads.  The  worn,  the 
wasted,  the  erring,  and  the  cruelly  maimed 
lie  thick  about  us.  Our  business  is  to  en- 
courage, to  love,  to  bind  up,  and  cheer. 
God,  in  His  own  time,  shall  lift  the  discon- 
tented head  above  the  power  of  conspiring 
cares  to  vex.  It  is  for  us  to  lend  a  helping 


106 


hand  down  here  where  the  "slough  of  de- 
spond"is  deepest.  When  tides  forget  to  obey 
the  moon,  or  leaves  to  answer  the  will  of  the 
wind,  then,  and  not  sooner,  shall  these  rest- 
less hearts  of  ours  learn  to  be  still,  whatso- 
ever destinies  confront,  or  limitations 
thwart.  In  looking  upon  the  lives  of  some 
women,  the  mother  of  six  children,  for  in- 
stance, who  takes  boarders  and  keeps  no 
help  ;  the  widow  supporting  her  little  brood 
by  endless  drudgeries;  the  big-hearted 
woman  in  whom  the  frolicsomeness  and  wit 
of  girlhood  die  hard  amid  the  sordid  mis- 
eries of  a  poverty-stricken  life  ;  the  sensitive, 
poetic  soul,  doomed  to  uncongenial  com- 
panionships and  the  criticisms  and  ridicule 
of  the  unfriendly  —  I  am  reminded  of  the 
score  of  eagles  I  saw  lately,  chained  in  a 
dusty  inclosure  of  Central  Park.  With 
clipped  wings,  and  grand,  homesick  eyes, 
they  sat  disconsolate  upon  their  perches, 
and  moped  the  hours  away.  Would  any 
sane  being  have  reviled  those  sorry  beings 
for  a  lack  of  spirit?  Would  not  the  gentle- 
hearted  spectator  have  proffered  a  handful 
of  fresh  leaves  rather,  and  turned  away  in 
pity  that  sympathy  could  do  no  more? 
For  these  unhappy  sisters  of  mine,  the  dis- 


107 

contented,  yearning  "Marthas,"  troubled 
with  many  cares,  wherever  my  letter  may 
find  them  between  the  great  seas,  I  have  a 
word  of  comfort  in  my  heart  to-day.  In  the 
first  place,  do  not  think,  because  you  so 
often  fall  into  irritability  and  impatient 
speech,  that  God  despises  you  as  a  sinner. 
He  understands,  if  friend,  husband,  or 
neighbor  do  not.  Strive  not  to  yield  to 
fretfulness  then,  but,  when  overcome  by  it, 
remember  always  God  understands  it  all. 
You  may  be  able  to  see  no  light  in  all  the 
shrouded  way,  no  lifting  of  the  shadow,  no 
promise  of  the  dawn;  but  rest  assured,  how- 
ever long  the  probation,  the  infinite  content 
of  Heaven  awaits  us  very  soon,  if  we  strive 
as  much  as  lies  within  us  to  overcome  the 
infirmities  of  our  temper,  and  keep  our  faces 
set  towards  the  shining  of  His  love.  I  know, 
dear  heart,  indeed  I  do,  that  to-morrow  and 
to-morrow  are  just  alike  to  hopeless  fancy — 
full  of  dish-washing,  and  drudging,  and 
back-bending  toil — that  the  sparkle  and 
song  of  life  were  long  ago  merged  in  the 
humdrum  beat  of  treadmill  years;  but 
through  just  this  test  is  your  character 
building — through  just  its  hard  process  is 
shaping  the  conqueror's  crown  flashing  with 


108 

splendid  light.  As  the  root  tarries  in  the 
dark  mold  to  burst  by-and-by  into  radi- 
ant bloom  above  it,  so  your  poor  life  is 
hidden  now  to  bloom  to-morrow.  You  are 
not  wicked  because  you  sometimes  murmur, 
but  try  and  think  so  much  of  what  is  going 
to  be  that  you  shall  forget  what  is.  The 
Tender  Heart  above  absolves  your  beaten 
spirit  from  willful  sin,  though  you  are  some- 
times swept  away  on  currents  of  doubt  and 
unfaith;  but  try  and  keep  your  eye  fixed 
upon  the  headlight  of  His  love,  whatever 
currents  drift  you  away.  Remember  how  hu- 
man parents  deal  with  their  children,  and 
learn  a  lesson  of  God's  dealings.  If  my  lit- 
tle girl  has  the  ear-ache,  or  any  other  tor- 
menting ailment  of  childhood,  do  I  stand 
over  her  and  exact  songs  and  smiles?  And 
do  you  think  that  when  God,  for  some  good 
reason  of  his  own,  lays  heavy  burdens  upon  a 
life,  He  is  going  to  demand  unswerving 
sweetness  of  speech  or  ethereal  mildness  of 
temper?  When  I  see  one  scrubbing  who 
was  fitted  to  adorn  the  drawing-room,  wash- 
ing dishes  who  was  created  an  artist  or  a 
genius,  darning  small  boys'  linsey  pants 
and  homespun  stockings  who  was  intended 
by  nature  to  reign  the  crowned  priestess  of 


109 


some  high  vocation;  when  I  mark  the  fur- 
rows and  zigzag  footprints  that  an  army  of 
besieging  cares  have  left  on  the  cheek  that 
in  girlhood  outblushed  the  wayside  rose,  or 
note  how  the  hands  that  once  drew  divinest 
music  from  obedient  keys  have  twisted  and 
warped  in  the  performance  of  homely  duties, 
I  feel  impelled  to  kiss  the  faded  cheek  with 
a  love  surpassing  a  lover's,  to  fold  the  poor 
hands  in  a  reverent  grasp,  for  I  tell  you, 
however  often  she  may  faint  and  falter  by 
the  way,  however  "fretty,"  and  worn,  and 
peevish  she  may  become,  the  woman  who 
perseveres  in  the  performance  of  uncon- 
genial duties,  who  struggles  through  the 
flatness  of  monotonous  drudgeries,  con- 
quering adverse  circumstances,  poverty,  and 
destiny,  by  patience,  love,  and  Christian 
faith,  is  a  heroine  fit  to  rank  with  martyrs 
and  saints.  Remember,  I  am  not  talking  to 
women  who  find  the  burdens  hard  to  bear 
and  do  not  bear  them;  to  mere  whimperers, 
who,  because  the  road  is  full  of  stones,  sit 
down  and  refuse  to  travel  ;  but  to  the  brave, 
true  hearts  who  "press  onward"  although  no 
rose  blossoms  and  no  bird  sings,  content  to 
faithfully  perform  the  task  of  life,  hoping 
that  the  fullness  of  time  shall  read  the  riddle 


no     |u>*«mitvtt  imfc 

of  incongruous  destiny.  I  have  seen  the 
time  when  household  work  seemed  newly 
cursed — the  very  dew  of  the  primal  maledic- 
tion upon  it;  when  to  charge  upon  the 
dinner  dishes,  attack  the  lamps,  or  descend 
into  the  vortex  of  family  patching,  seemed 
to  call  for  greater  courage  than  average  hu- 
man nature  possessed.  And  when  I  imagine 
that  shrinking  carried  on  through  dry  years 
of  monotonous  experience,  the  same  formu- 
las to  be  observed,  the  same  distaste  to  be 
overcome  throughout  a  lifetime  of  toil,  yet 
no  duty  shirked,  no  obligation  set  aside,  I 
wonder  if  Heaven  holds  a  crown  too  bright 
for  such  faithful  lives. 


The  time  of  the  year  for  violets  and  also 
for  tramps  is  drawing  near.  Did  you  ever 
stop  and  think  just  what  it  means  to  be  a 
tramp?  It  means  no  work,  no  money,  no 
home,  no  shelter,  no  friends.  Nobody  in  all 
the  world  to  care  whether  you  live  or  die  like 
a  dog  by  the  roadside.  It  means  no  heaven 
for  such  rags  to  crawl  into,  no  grave  to  hide 
them  out  of  sight  and  no  hand  stretched  out 
in  all  the  world  to  give  the  greeting  and  the 


ill 


good-by  of  love.  It  means  nobody  in  all  the 
world  to  feel  any  interest  in  you  and  no 
spot  in  all  the  world  to  call  your  own,  not 
even  the  mud  wherein  your  vagrant  foot- 
print falls,  no  prospect  ahead,  and  no  link 
unbroken  to  bind  you  to  the  past.  I  tell 
you,  when  we  sit  down  and  figure  out  just 
what  the  term  means,  it  will  not  be  quite  so 
easy  next  time  the  wretched  tramp  calls  at 
our  door  to  set  the  dog  upon  him  or  turn  him 
empty-handed  away.  Let  them  work,  you 
say.  Look  here,  my  good  friend,  do  you 
know  how  absolutely  impossible  a  thing  it  is 
getting  to  be  in  this  overcrowded  country  for 
even  a  willing  man  to  find  work?  It  used  to 
be  that  "every  dog  had  his  day,"  but  the  dogs 
far  outnumber  the  days  in  free  America.  I 
know  well  educated,  competent  men  who 
have  been  out  of  employment  for  months 
and  years.  I  know  brave  and  earnest  women, 
with  little  children  to  support,  who  have 
worn  beaten  paths  from  place  to  place  seek- 
ing, not  charity,  but  honest  employment, 
and  failed  to  find  it.  What  chance  is  there 
for  a  ragged  tramp  when  such  as  these  fail? 
Remember,  once  in  a  while,  if  you  can,  that 
the  most  grizzled  and  wretched  tramp  that 
ever  plodded  his  way  to  a  pauper's  grave 


112 

was  once  a  child  and  cradled  in  arms  per- 
haps as  fond  as  those  that  enfolded  you  and 
me.  Remember  that  your  mother  and  his 
were  made  sisters  by  the  pangs  of  maternal 
pain,  and  perhaps  in  the  heaven  from  which 
the  saintly  eyes  of  your  mother  are  watching 
for  you  his  mother  is  looking  out  for  him. 
Perhaps — who  knows? — the  footfall  of  the 
ragged  and  despised  tramp  shall  gain  upon 
yours  and  find  the  gate  of  deliverance  first, 
in  spite  of  your  money  and  your  pride. 


THE  BROOK. 

Lifting  its  chalice  of  sun-kissed  foam 

Far  up  the  heights  where  the  wild  winds  roam, 

Weaving  a  web  of  shadow  and  sheen 

In  lowland  meadows  of  dewy  green. 

Murmuring  over  the  mossy  stones, 
In  cool  green  dells  where  the  gold  bee  drones, 
Sudden  and  swift  the  showery  fall, 
Startling  the  wood  bird's  madrigal. 

Orbing  itself  in  a  crystal  lake 
Set  round  with  thickets  of  tangled  brake, 
In  waveless  calm,  an  emerald  etone, 
In  the  lap  of  the  dusky  forest  thrown. 


rmfr    totB.      us 


Silver  flakes  of  tremulous  light 
Showering  down  from  the  fields  of  night, 
Where  the  great  white  stars  like  lilies  glow 
Tossed  on  its  tide  as  feathery  snow. 

Hastening  onward  through  troubled  ways, 
Forgotten  for  aye  its  woodland  days, 
Sullen  and  silent  its  banks  beside 
The  free  brook  wanders,  a  mighty  tide. 

Beyond  where  the  forest's  purple  rim 
Belts  the  horizon,  hazy  and  dim, 
Thundering  down  from  the  frowning  steeps, 
Into  the  arms  of  the  sea  it  leaps. 


Did  it  ever  strike  you,  I  wonder,  this 
marvel  of  our  individuality?  Alone  we  are 
born,  alone  we  live,  alone  we  die,  alone  we 
pay  the  penalty  or  reap  the  reward  of  our 
evil  or  well  doing.  In  the  troubles  that  as- 
sail us  we  stand  singly,  however  many  coun- 
cillors may  flock  to  the  door  of  our  tent. 
Not  one  in  all  the  world,  the  nearest,  the 
dearest  or  the  best,  can  bear  one  pang  of 
life's  experience  for  us,  love  us  as  they  may. 
We  often  hear  a  mother  say:  "My  child 
is  so  headstrong;  she  will  not  take  my  ad- 
vice ;  she  will  go  her  own  way."  Of  course 

8 


she  will,  and  she  will  not,  simply  because  in- 
dividual tact  is  the  law  of  all  experience.  It 
is  not  being  headstrong,  it  is  merely  ful- 
filling destiny. 

In  the  fight  we  wage  we  do  not  fight  by 
platoons  or  squads,  under  a  common  leader, 
a  thousand  at  a  charge.  We  enter  the  lists 
one  by  one  and  fight  single  handed.  We 
choose  our  own  colors  and  there  is  little  of 
pageantry  or  show.  When  we  fall  we  fall 
as  travelers  disappear  who  walk  across  a 
coast  that  is  honeycombed  with  quicksand. 
We  vanish,  not  in  crowds  like  men  who  are 
jostled  out  of  life  by  earthquakes  or  flooded 
like  rats  by  tidal  waves,  but  we  slowly  suc- 
cumb to  the  inevitable  in  solitudes  where 
only  the  stars  watch  us  and  the  spaces  of  a 
dim,  unsounded  sea  catch  the  fret  of  our 
mortal  moan. 

I  have  always  thought  that  I  should  love 
to  have  the  world  come  to  an  end,  with  a 
grand  final  bang,  while  I  was  yet  living  and 
sentient  on  the  surface.  I  would  like  to  be 
flashed  out  of  being  in  the  conglomerate  of 
a  mighty  swarm,  like  the  covey  of  birds  a 
huntsman's  rifle  brings  down  or  the  multi- 
tude a  Pompeiian  doom  overtakes.  Such 
dying  would  be  like  riding  out  of  an  elec- 


us 


trie-lighted  station,  by  the  car  full,  rather 
than  sneaking  a  place  on  the  back  platform 
like  a  tramp.  But  after  all,  death  would  not 
lose  its  awful  individuality  even  then.  Mar- 
shal the  whole  world,  and  aim  a  single  bul- 
let at  a  hundred  million  souls,  with  power  to 
still  use  each  pulse  beat  in  the  same  rifle 
flash  of  time,  yet  each  man  would  die  alone. 
There  is  one  final  lesson  to  be  gained 
through  the  doleful  contemplation  of  the 
world's  flood-tide  of  sorrow,  and  that  is  the 
lesson  of  how  to  bear  our  troubles  so  as  to 
react  as  little  as  possible  upon  those  with 
whom  life  throws  us  in  daily  contact.  Be- 
cause the  goblin  bee  has  stung  our  own 
souls,  shall  we  seek  to  share  the  pain  of  its 
stateless  sting  with  all  we  meet?  No  more 
than  we  should  endeavor  to  carry  contagion 
in  our  garments  or  put  poison  in  our  neigh- 
bor's well.  I  knew  a  man  once,  a  gallant, 
light-hearted  soldier,  who  honored  the  blue 
and  brass  of  his  country's  uniform  by  wear- 
ing it.  An  awful  sorrow  suddenly  smote  his 
life,  like  an  Indian  sortie  from  an  ambush. 
Wife  and  children  were  swept  from  his 
arms  by  a  swift  disaster  and  he  was  left 
alone.  His  friends  said:  "He  is  a  wrecked 
man!  He  will  never  lift  his  head  again!" 


116 

How  did  he  fulfill  this  prophecy  of  woe?  He 
entered  the  chamber  of  his  darkened  home 
and  denied  himself  to  everyone.  He  neither 
ate  nor  slept.  He  fought  by  himself  a  great- 
er battle  than  call  of  bugle  ever  summoned 
to  any  field.  He  mastered  his  own  soul, 
and  emerged  from  that  chamber  after  a 
certain  number  of  days  a  conqueror  over 
his  own  sorrow.  His  smile  was  as  ready, 
his  heart  as  tender,  his  genial  speech  as  wel- 
come at  home  and  abroad  as  it  had  ever 
been,  and  only  when  the  goblin  bee  of  mem- 
ory stung  him  in  the  silence  of  the  compan- 
ionless  night  did  he  live  over  again  the  ex- 
perience of  his  sorrow.  None  knew  when 
that  sting  came,  or  how  it  tarried;  he  bore 
it  silently  like  a  soldier  and  a  man.  The 
trifling  world  called  him  light  of  love  and 
easily  consoled,  but  I  think  he  was  a  grand, 
unselfish  hero,  a  benefactor  rather  than  a 
destroyer  of  mankind. 

When  we  get  so  that  we  can  hide  our  sor- 
row in  a  smile  we  attain  that  attitude  that 
brings  us  closest  to  the  divine.  The  man  or 
the  woman  who  goes  up  and  down  the  ways 
of  the  world  with  a  groan  on  his  lips  and  a 
weed  on  his  arm  is  an  infliction  worse  than 
an  out  of  tune  hand  organ.  If  the  bee 


n? 


stings,  hold  still  and  bear  the  hurt  by  your- 
self as  best  you  may,  but  don't  talk  it  over 
with  everyone  you  meet,  like  an  old  woman 
petitioning  a  recipe  for  a  bad  cough  and 
flaunting  her  physical  ailments  forever  in 
your  face.  When  you  have  bright  things  to 
talk  about  and  comforting  things  to  say, 
talk;  otherwise  hold  your  peace.  The  rea- 
son, I  think,  why  animals  are  never  wrinkled 
and  drawn  of  feature  and  gray  like  mankind 
is  because  they  cannot  talk.  If  they  had  the 
power  of  speech  they  would  go  around  as 
humans  do  and  disseminate  unpleasant  top- 
ics, as  idle  winds  start  thistle  pollen.  Silence 
is  golden  when  you  can  find  nothing  bet- 
ter to  do  than  to  clamor  your  own  troubles  ; 
speech  only  is  blessed  when,  like  a  bird,  it 
evolves  a  song  or  wings  a  feathered  hope. 

It  seems  hardly  the  thing  to  do,  perhaps, 
to  single  out  the  unhappy  folks  in  a  present 
world  so  full  of  jollity  and  talk  with  them 
awhile  to-day.  This  bright  autumn  weather 
is  so  crowded  with  sights  and  sounds  to 
dazzle  and  enchant  that  to  obtrude  the  leaf 
of  rue  within  the  garland  or  breathe  a 
minor  tone  into  the  music  seems  almost  out 
of  place.  And  yet,  for  some  reason  or  other, 
as  I  sit  here  at  my  desk  to-day,  the  thought 


118 

of  the  hearts  that  are  heavy  in  the  midst  of 
all  the  world's  fair  pageant,  and  the  eyes 
that  cannot  see  the  banners  by  reason  of 
their  tears,  come  to  me  with  a  strong  and 
resistless  force. 

Alas,  for  the  goblin  bee  that  stings,  yet 
all  too  often  may  not  "state  its  sting" !  We 
walk  with  a  crowd,  and  yet  are  conscious 
that  our  way  is  not  theirs.  It  lies  apart, 
we  know  not  why,  and  evermore  dips  into 
shadow  and  threads  the  dark  defiles  of 
gloom.  There  are  so  many  more  reasons 
for  being  sorry  than  for  being  glad,  we 
think.  Try  to  count  the  causes  for  laugh- 
ter, and  then,  over  against  them,  set  the 
reasons  for  sorrow  and  see  which  way  the 
balance  falls.  I  take  my  seat  on  a  bench 
out  at  the  big  show  and  watch  the  crowd 
for  an  hour.  Do  I  see  many  faces  that  do 
not  bear  the  scar  of  the  "goblin  bee"?  From 
the  little  four-year-old  who  is  bitterly  cry- 
ing because  somebody  has  jostled  its  toy 
from  its  hand,  to  the  woman  whose  eyes  are 
sunken  with  sorrow  because  death  has 
jostled  the  one  whom  she  loved  into  his 
grave,  everybody  who  passes,  with  but  few 
exceptions,  shows  the  scar  of  that  stateless 
sting. 


119 


Look  at  my  window-garden,  yonder! 
The  sunshine,  stealing  in  from  the  south, 
has  wooed  a  dozen  pansies  into  bloom — 
"Johnny-jump-ups,"  they  used  to  call  them 
when  I  was  a  girl.  How  bright  and  cheery 
and  chatty  they  look.  We  have  those  sort 
of  faces  (some  of  us)  every  day  about  our 
breakfast  tables.  The  little  folks,  God  bless 
'em!  with  their  shining  hair,  their  bright 
eyes,  and  the  soft  velvet  of  their  cheeks,  are 
the  blessed  heartsease  of  our  home.  And 
there  is  a  fuchsia,  turbaned  like  a  Turk,  be- 
hind the  pansies.  Just  such  sumptuous, 
graceful  women  we  see  every  day.  Like  the 
fuchsia,  they  are  beautiful  and  that  is  all. 
They  yield  no  fragrance.  They  attract  the 
eye  but  fail  to  reach  the  heart.  Who 
wouldn't  rather  have  'mignonette  growing 
in  the  window?  There  is  a  yellow  blossom 
in  the  window  that  reminds  one  of  the  pa- 
tient shining  of  certain  homely  souls  I  know, 
making  sunshine  in  humble  homes;  cheer- 
ful old  maid  aunts,  sweet-hearted  elder  sis- 
ters, yielding  the  honey  of  their  hearts  to 
others.  A  cluster  of  fading  violets  sets  me 


120 

thinking  of  frail  invalids  and  the  host  of 
"shut-in"  ones,  whose  delicate  and  dying 
beauty  fills  our  eyes  with  unstayed  tears  and 
our  hearts  with  the  shadow  of  coming  sor- 
row. 


There  are  gates  that  swing  within  your 
life  and  mine  from  day  to  day,  letting  in  rare 
opportunities  that  tarry  but  a  moment  and 
are  gone,  like  travelers  bound  for  points  re- 
mote. There  is  the  opportunity  to  resist 
the  temptation  to  do  a  mean  thing ;  improve 
it,  for  it  is  in  a  hurry,  like  a  man  whose  ticket 
is  bought  and  whose  time  is  up.  It  won't 
be  back  this  way,  either,  for  opportunities 
for  good  are  not  like  tourists  who  travel  on 
return  tickets.  There  is  the  opportunity  to 
say  a  pleasant  word  to  your  wife,  sir,  or  you, 
madam,  to  your  husband,  instead  of  venting 
your  temper  and  your  "nerves"  upon  each 
other.  Love's  opportunity  travels  by  light- 
ning express  and  has  no  time  to  dawdle 
around  the  waiting-roocj.  It  you  improve 
it  at  all  it  must  be  while  the  gate  swings  to 
let  it  through. 


121 

My  dear,  let  me  implore  you,  whatever 
else  you  let  go,  hold  on  to  your  enthusiasm. 
Grow  old  if  you  must;  grow  white-headed 
and  bent  and  care-furrowed,  if  such  must 
needs  be  the  process  of  years,  but  don't  grow 
to  be  a  stick.  If  you  must  pass  on  from  the 
green  time  of  your  freshness,  change  into 
sweet  hay  and  keep  your  fragrance.  If  the 
cage  must  grow  rusty  and  lose  its  bright- 
ness, there  is  a  bird  within,  that  it  were  a 
pity  to  strangle  to  keep  it  from  singing  to 
the  end.  I  don't  care  how  successful,  or 
rich,  or  learned  a  man  becomes,  if  he  main- 
tains a  grim  repression  of  all  romance  and 
enthusiasm,  and  what  some  hard  old 
"Gradgrinds"  call  the  "nonsense"  within 
him,  he  is  nothing  more  than  a  fine  cage 
with  a  dead  bird  in  it.  When  I  hear  a  per- 
son say  of  another,  "Oh,  he  is  a  substantial 
fellow;  no  nonsense  about  him!"  I  picture 
a  gold-fish  in  a  glass  globe.  A  glittering 
cuticle  that  covers  anything  so  bloodless  as 
the  anatomy  of  a  fish  is  not  worth  much. 
There  are  a  good  many  types  of  men  to  be 
detected,  but  the  bloodless,  emotionless, 
heart-paralytic,  is  the  worst.  Polish  up  a 
golden  ball  all  you  like.  It  may  ornament 
your  mantel,  or  serve  as  a  useless  bit  of 


122 

glitter  in  some  corner,  but  when  you  begin 
to  feel  hungry  and  faint,  and  in  need  of  so- 
lace and  cheer,  you  will  turn  from  the  golden 
ball  and  pick  up  the  veriest  old  rusty  coat 
apple  from  an  orchard's  windfall,  that  has 
mellowed  under  summer  noon,  and  sweet- 
ened in  summer  rains  and  dews,  praising 
God  for  its  flavor  and  its  juices,  even  if  you 
can  buy  forty  bushels  of  its  counterpart,  for 
the  price  of  one  of  your  polished  golden 
balls.  Cultivate  the  "nonsense"  in  you, 
then,  if  it  tends  to  enthusiasm  of  the  right 
sort.  It  is  the  sympathy  we  get  from  peo- 
ple, the  heartsomeness  and  cheer  that  keep 
our  souls  nourished,  rather  than  the  mere 
dazzle  of  intellectual  attainment,  or  the 
greatness  of  any  worldly  achievement. 
Heart  rather  than  head ;  nature  rather  than 
art;  genuineness  rather  than  pretense;  ro- 
mance rather  than  absolute  realism;  enthu- 
siasm rather  than  petrifaction,  will  make  a 
man  rather  than  a  gold  fish,  a  juicy  apple 
rather  than  a  ball  of  metallic  and  glittering 
nothingness. 


We  were  gathered  at  the  Norfolk  Sta- 
tion awaiting  the  train  that  was  to  carry  us 


123 


over  the  marshes  to  Virginia  Beach  and  the 
sea.  The  crowd  that  surrounded  us  was 
very  different  from  a  Chicago  crowd.  There 
was  no  pushing,  no  bold  assertiveness,  no 
elbows.  There  were  lots  of  pretty  women, 
and  as  for  me  everybody  knows  I  simply 
adore  the  open  sky,  a  tree  in  blossom  and  a 
pretty  woman.  There  were  young  girls  with 
velvety  brown  eyes  within  whose  dusky 
shadows  one  might  look  fathom  deep  as  in- 
to a  well  of  limpid  water;  girls  with  blue 
eyes  like  fringed  gentians;  women  with 
grand  free  curves  of  figure  that  would  have 
made  Hebe  look  commonplace  ;  women  with 
shapely  shoulders  and  long,  aristocratic 
hands,  tinted  at  the  finger-tips  as  though 
fresh  from  picking  ripe  strawberries;  girls 
all  in  white  (for  the  day  was  warm),  like 
June  lilies;  women  with  snowy  teeth  and 
adorable  smiles  to  disclose  them  ;  little  tots 
of  girls  with  braided  hair  and  soft,  question- 
ing eyes;  queenly  girls,  like  tulips  in  bloom, 
all  chatting  together  in  subdued  but  merry 
tones  and  laughing  as  delicately  and  airily 
as  thrushes  sing.  Oh,  I  lost  my  heart  to 
you,  my  pretty  southern  maidens,  and  count 
the  time  well  spent  I  devoted  to  the  contem- 


124 

plation  of  your  many  graces  away  down  in 
that  little  station  by  the  torrid  bay. 


If  I  was  a  liar  and  wanted  to  reform  I 
shouldn't  quit  lying  all  at  once.  I  would 
start  out  with  a  covenant  to  occasionally  tell 
the  truth.  By  and  by  this  spasmodic  truth- 
telling,  like  the  grain  blown  by  the  wind 
among  stones,  would,  perhaps,  yield  suf- 
ficient harvest  to  send  me  not  quite  empty- 
handed  up  to  St.  Peter's  gate.  If  I  drank 
whisky  I  would  commence  to  reform  by 
swearing  off  on  one  glass  out  of  three,  and 
perhaps  the  manhood  within  me,  having  so 
much  more  chance  to  grow,  would  elbow  its 
way  into  heaven.  If  I  was  a  gossip  I  would 
try  to  hold  my  tongue  from  speaking  evil 
half  the  time,  and  in  that  blissful  interval 
perhaps  my  dwarfed  soul  would  get  a  start 
skyward.  It  is  not  by  sudden  achievement 
that  we  consummate  a  long  journey.  It  is 
step  by  step  and  mile  by  mile  over  a  stony 
road  that  brings  us  to  the  goal,  and  it  is 
not  by  mere  resolving  that  we  renounce  the 
old  and  attain  unto  the  new.  He  who  travels 
but  a  few  steps  and  keeps  his  face  heaven- 


ward  is  on  the  way,  and  every  small  decision 
for  the  right,  faithfully  adhered  to,  is  a  no- 
table step  toward  a  consummated  journey. 


I  am  often  struck  with  the  selfishness  dis- 
played by  people  who  are  fortunate  enough 
to  be  provided  with  umbrellas  in  time  of  sud- 
den showers.  They  calmly  behold  hosts  of 
unhappy  beings  battling  their  way  through 
the  storm,  drenched  to  the  bone,  and  with 
ruined  garments,  yet  never  think  of  saying, 
"Accept  a  share  of  my  umbrella,"  or  "Walk 
with  me  as  far  as  our  ways  lie  together." 
If  I  should  hear  such  a  speech  I  might  drop 
senseless  with  surprise,  but  all  the  same  I 
should  hail  it  as  the  bugle  note  that  heralded 
a  new  era  of  courteous  kindness. 

We  are  not  put  into  the  world  to  be  sus- 
picious of  one  another.  We  were  put  here  to 
make  the  world  pleasanter  for  our  tarrying, 
and  to  cultivate  a  fellowship  with  souls.  If 
the  guests  at  a  mountain  inn,  sojourning  to- 
gether for  a  stormy  night,  spend  the  time  in 
reviling  one  another,  or  in  calling  attention 
to  each  other's  blemishes,  we  write  them 
down  as  snobs;  but  what  shall  we  call  the 
tenants  of  transitory  time  who  spend  the 


126 


span  of  mortal  life  in  doing  all  they  can  to 
make  one  another  uncomfortable?  We  have 
only  a  watch  in  the  night  to  tarry  together  ; 
let  us  try  to  make  that  hour  a  profitable  one 
and  a  pleasant  memory  for  others  when  we 
have  journeyed  on. 

I  have  often  wondered  how  Christian  peo- 
ple got  round  the  gospel  command,  "Love 
thy  neighbor  as  thyself."  It  doesn't  say 
love  him  (or  her)  after  a  proper  introduction, 
or  if  agreeable,  or  congenial,  or  of  good 
family  and  established  reputation  —  it  sim- 
ply gives  the  command  on  general  princi- 
ples. I  don't  pretend  to  be  good  enough  to 
obey  the  mandate  myself,  for  I  honestly 
think  it  is  a  species  of  hypocrisy  to  say  you 
love  everybody.  One  might  as  well  say  one 
were  fond  of  all  fruit  alike,  whether  specked, 
wormy  or  rotten.  But  let  my  good  orthodox 
professor  put  this  in  his  pipe  and  smoke  it. 
Let  him  remember  it  next  time  he  sees  his 
neighbor  plunged  into  an  extremity,  or  han- 
dicapped by  an  annoyance  of  any  kind.  If 
we  love  our  neighbor  we  are  bound  to  help 
him,  and  neighbor  in  this  sense  means  any- 
one who  chances  to  be  near  us,  whether 
black  or  white,  raggedly  disreputable  or 
sanctimoniously  frilled. 


|£tt£*     127 

There  is  more  selfishness  perpetrated  in 
the  world  under  guise  of  family  ties  than  in 
almost  any  other  way.  The  man  who  does 
good  and  unselfish  deeds  only  for  his  own 
children  and  for  the  immediate  circle  housed 
beneath  his  roof,  forgetful  of  the  claims  of 
the  great,  tormented,  harassed  and  strug- 
gling world,  is  a  selfish  man  and  account- 
able to  heaven  for  a  great  deal  of  mean- 
ness. I  don't  care  how  much  he  puts  on  his 
children's  backs,  or  how  many  luxuries  he 
surrounds  them  with,  the  Lord  will  not  hold 
him  guiltless  if  he  does  nothing  for  the 
stranger  who  tugs  by  him  in  the  stress  of 
life's  uncertain  weather,  or  for  the  neighbor 
who  sits  disconsolate  outside  his  gates. 

I  wish  that  vagabond  and  his  dog  who 
were  brought  before  a  west  side  justice  yes- 
terday for  vagrancy  would  travel  up  my 
way.  I  like  that  sort  of  thing  that  leads  a 
man  to  be  faithful  to  his  dog.  It  goes  with- 
out saying  that  the  dog  is  faithful  to  the 
man,  but  it  is  not  often  that  the  master 
shows  the  same  spirit  to  the  fond  and  stead- 
fast brute.  If  the  two  should  journey  my 
way  I  think  they  would  have  one  white  day 
in  the  calendar.  Good  heavens,  my  dear,  do 
you  ever  stop  long  enough  in  the  midst  of 


128 


your  golf-playing  and  your  tennis  tourna- 
ments, your  yachtings  and  your  outings  to 
think  what  it  is  to  be  a  tramp?  To  be  unable 
to  find  a  stroke  of  work;  to  be  sick  and 
starved  and  homeless  !  Like  "poor  Joe,"  to 
be  told  to  "move  on"  every  time  you  stop  to 
rest;  to  eat  the  grudgingly  given  crust  of 
charity,  and  have  no  friend  under  the  sun, 
moon  or  stars  but  a  flea-bitten  dog?  Did 
you  ever  stop  to  think,  my  Christian  friend, 
that  that  tramp  is  a  neighbor  whom  you  are 
to  love?  And  if  you  are  going  to  love  him 
I  will  love  his  dog!  No  doubt  the  latter  is 
the  better  man  of  the  two. 


Did  you  ever  read  of  a  battle  siege  in 
olden  times?  There  were  the  full-armored 
warriors,  resplendent  in  shining  metal  and 
plumed  crests;  there  were  the  mighty 
battering  rams,  and  the  flash  of  battle  axes, 
the  thunder  of  advancing  feet  and  the  trum- 
pet call  before  the  gates.  But  more  potent 
than  all  else  in  the  doomed  city's  destruc- 
tion was  the  secret  work  of  the  sappers  and 
miners — the  patient  forces  which  wrought 
their  work  out  of  sight  and  hearing.  And 


129 


I  have  been  thinking  to-night,  as  I  sit  here, 
where  the  firelight  weaves  its  delicate  tapes- 
try within  the  beautiful  walls  of  home,  that 
it  is  not  going  to  be  the  pompous  ones  who 
shall  march  triumphant  at  last  into  the  "City 
of  Gold,"  but  they  who  have  worked  pa- 
tiently and  humbly  out  of  sight  and  with 
no  meed  of  praise.  The  man  who  has  held 
to  the  dictates  of  his  own  conscience,  not 
conforming  to  the  company  he  marched 
with;  the  man  who  has  dared  to  be  himself 
in  a  world  where  men  are  labeled  in  lots; 
the  man  who  has  held  it  high  honor  to  suffer 
for  a  principle  or  to  be  loyal  to  an  unpopular 
friend  or  cause  ;  the  man  who  has  erected  a 
standard  made  up  between  his  own  heart 
and  heaven,  and,  independent  of  the  world's 
verdict  of  praise  or  blame,  followed  it  to 
the  end,  is  going  to  wear  a  crown  by  and 
by,  when  the  epauletted  general  and  the 
pompous  staff  are  forgotten.  Prayer  is  not 
always  a  genuflexion  and  an  address.  It  is 
oftener  hard  work.  The  farmer  praying  at 
his  weeds,  the  pilot  praying  from  every 
spoke  of  his  wheel,  the  mother  whose  daily 
life  of  unselfish  toil  and  far-reaching  influ- 
ence is  a  prayer,  do  more  to  stir  the  divine 
heart,  to  keep  the  world's  prow  headed  for 

9 


130       tooemavjl  tmfc 


heaven  than  half  the  solicitations  or  apolo- 
getic addresses  made  in  our  churches  under 
the  name  of  prayer. 


When  you  and  I  get  rich,  any  dear,  as 
some  day  we  surely  shall,  what  are  we  going 
to  do  with  all  our  money?  We  will  hunt  up 
some  of  the  improvident  ones,  those  who 
could  never  make  the  two  ends  meet,  those 
who  through  good  heartedness,  or  lack  of 
forethought  or  unselfish  desire  to  make 
other  folks  happy,  have  never  laid  by  a  cent, 
and  we  will  give  those  silly  people  such  a 
good  time  they  will  carry  its  impress  all 
through  their  after  lives,  as  a  pat  of  butter 
carries  the  print.  We  will  slyly  pay  the 
bills  for  improvident  ones  who  have  grown 
gray  in  the  effort  to  make  a  decent  funeral 
for  dead  horses.  They  shall  forget  how  to 
spell  "care"  and  their  new  and  happy  dia- 
lect shall  know  no  such  words  as  "monthly 
payments,"  "righteous  dues"  or  "can't  afford 
it."  I  am  convinced  that  as  a  rule  it  is  not 
the  sweet-hearted  people  who  take  on  this 
world's  gain.  There  is  many  a  poor  beggar 
with  not  a  change  of  linen  to  his  back  who 


would  make  a  more  royal  host,  had  the 
smiling  face  of  fortune  turned  his  way,  than 
the  rightful  owner  of  the  vast  estates  at 
whose  gate  he  stands  and  begs.  The  big 
hearts  too  often  go  with  the  empty  purse, 
and  the  little,  wizened,  skin-flint  souls,  that 
it  would  take  a  thousand  of  to  crowd  the 
passage  through  the  eye  of  a  needle,  gain  all 
the  golden  favors  of  the  god  of  plenty. 


After  dinner  I  said  to  the  little  folks,  "Be- 
hold, I  will  buy  me  a  pair  of  stockings  and 
hire  a  bathing  suit,  and  the  afternoon  shall 
be  devoted  to  frolic  and  thee."  So  we  went 
to  the  small  booth,  where  an  exceedingly 
meek  young  man  sold  ginger  pop  and  fancy 
shells,  and  paralyzed  him  with  a  demand  for 
ladies'  hose.  He  didn't  know  what  we  meant 
until  I  came  out  boldly  and  unblushingly 
and  asked  for  women's  stockings.  He 
said  he  didn't  keep  'em.  "Have  you  a 
mother?"  said  I.  "No."  "Have  you  a  sis- 
ter? Or  is  there  a  nearer  one  yet  and  a 
dearer,  from  whom  I  could  buy  or  borrow 
a  pair  of  stockings  that  I  may  go  in  bath- 
ing?" He  didn't  understand  that  either,  but 


finally,  with  the  aid  of  lucre,  I  made  the 
matter  clear  so  that  he  got  me  a  pair  of 
canary-striped  woolen  hose,  evidently  laid 
by  for  some  farmer's  winter  use,  and  I 
bought  them  for  a  sum  that  'made  his  eyes 
grow  dim  with  rapture.  We  went  down  to 
the  beach,  and  after  a  season  of  prayer  with 
the  young  person  to  induce  her  to  put  on 
some  horrid  tights,  we  all  went  in  and  en- 
joyed such  a  dip  as  only  salt  water  yields. 
In  the  midst  of  it  we  had  to  go  on  shore 
several  times  to  stand  the  boy  on  his  head 
and  pump  the  ocean  out  of  him,  as  he  was 
constantly  getting  drowned  in  the  surf,  and 
one  of  my  expensive  and  expansive  stock- 
ings was  captured  out  at  sea  and  brought 
back  by  a  son  of  Belial,  who  seemed  greatly 
affected  by  its  size,  but  in  spite  of  such  small 
drawbacks  we  had  a  glorious  time. 


"What  is  the  matter,  my  darling?"  asked 
John,  the  newly  'married,  to  the  wife  of  his 
bosom. 

"Nothing  whatever,"  replied  Mrs.  John. 

"But  you  look  like  a  funeral,"  exclaimed 
he. 


133 


"I  am  not  aware  that  I  look  more  than 
usually  unamiable;  I  certainly  never  felt 
better,"  replied  his  wife,  placidly  folding 
down  meanwhile  the  hem  to  a  distracting 
little  apron  she  is  making.  John  seizes  his 
hat,  pushes  it  down  over  his  eyes  and  rushes 
forth  distracted  with  the  conjecture  as  to 
what  terrible  thing  he  has  been  guilty  of  to 
make  his  wife  look  so  like  an  injured  mar- 
tyr. For  the  time  being  love  is  dead,  joy 
wiped  from  the  face  of  the  earth,  hope  cru- 
cified and  peace  assassinated,  all  because  of 
bottled  thunder.  A  word  would  have  ex- 
plained all,  a  look  has  ruined  everything. 

"Don't  put  on  your  fresh  muslin  this 
afternoon,"  suggests  the  prudent  mother. 

"But  why  not?"  replied  the  sprightly  Jane; 
"it  is  the  only  endurable  dress  this  warm 
weather." 

"Oh,  very  well,  do  as  you  like,  of  course," 
meekly  replied  the  parent  in  a  tone  that 
suggests  a  serpent's  fang,  a  hoary  head  and 
a  broken  heart  all  in  one. 

Now,  in  my  opinion  it  is  not  conducive  to 
domestic  harmony  to  have  too  much  of  this 
sort  of  repression.  It  is  like  living  in  an 
exhaust  chamber.  One  would  be  certain  to 
choke  up  and  burst  very  soon.  Self-con- 


134 

trol  does  not  consist  in  forever  keeping 
one's  mouth  shut,  alone.  A  look,  a  sneer, 
a  drooping  mouth,  a  tilted  nose,  will  do  as 
much  mischief  as  a  loosened  tongue.  Why 
I  should  go  about  like  a  disagreeable  old 
martyr  or  like  a  sneering  Saul  of  Tarsus, 
and  call  myself  pleasant  to  live  with,  sim- 
ply because  I  don't  talk,  is  something  not 
easily  understood. 

I  would  far  rather  be  a  target  for  flying 
saucepans  every  time  I  popped  -my  head 
into  the  kitchen  than  have  a  cook  there 
who  never  says  a  word,  but  is  sullen  and 
ugly  enough  to  carve  me  up  like  cold  meat. 
I  would  rather  be  a  constant  attendant  at 
funerals,  a  nurse  in  a  fever-ward,  a  girl  in  a 
circus,  or  a  street  car  horse,  than  live  with 
proper  folks  who  never  make  blunders,  or 
commit  indiscretions  either  of  speech  or 
manner,  but  look  at  you  every  time  you 
sneeze  as  though  your  featherheadedness 
was  the  only  thing  that  made  life  unbeara- 
ble. Out  with  it  then  if  you  have  cause  for 
offense.  Don't  let  the  clouds  hang  a  single 
hour,  but  turn  on  the  weather  faucet  and  let 
it  rain.  If  your  neighbor  has  insulted  you, 
either  ask  her  why  or  ignore  it.  Ten  to  one 
the  fancied  insult  is  only  a  wind  cloud,  and 


135 


sunshine  will  break  it  away.  If  you  feel  mad 
sail  right  in  for  a  tempest  and  have  done 
with  it.  Thunder  and  lighten,  blow  and 
hail  if  you  want  to,  but  don't  be  a  non-com- 
mittal dog-day.  Bottled  thunder  is  a  bad 
thing  to  keep  on  the  family  shelves.  It  is 
likely  to  turn  sour  on  your  hands,  and  before 
you  get  through  with  it,  you  will  wish  you 
had  died  young. 


Yonder  goes  a  small  and  worthless  yellow 
dog.  He  is  young;  you  can  tell  that  from 
the  abnormal  size  of  his  paws,  and  a  certain 
remnant  of  wistful  trust  in  human  kind, 
which  displays  itself  in  the  furtive  wag  of  his 
tail  and  the  cock  of  his  limp  and  discouraged 
ear.  He  is  as  absolutely  friendless  as  any- 
thing to  which  God  has  granted  life  can  be. 
Of  his  existence  there  is  no  thought  in  the 
mind  of  any  man  or  woman  beneath  the 
stars.  The  boys  grow  imindful  of  him  now 
and  then,  though,  and  their  manifested  in- 
terest has  made  of  his  life  one  terrible  spec- 
ter of  cringing  fear.  He  hears  the  hurrah 
of  their  cruel  chase  in  every  tone  of  sudden 
speech;  he  sees  the  menace  of  a  blow  in 
every  shadow.  Do  you  know,  my  dear, 


136 

that  I  never  spoke  a  truer  word  in  all  my 
life  than  when  I  say  that  underneath  the  hide 
of  that  forlorn  and  friendless  little  yellow 
dog  there  is  something  more  valuable  than 
beats  under  the  broadcloth  vests  and  silken 
waists  of  many  of  the  men  and  women  who 
pass  him  by!  A  grateful  heart  mindful  of 
the  smallest  kindnesses,  a  faithful  instinct 
which  keeps  dogs  loyal  even  to  cruel  mas- 
ters. I  sometimes  think  I  would  rather 
take  my  chances  with  honest  dogs  than  with 
half  the  men  who  own  them.  They  may  not 
be  able  to  pass  up  the  stamped  ticket  which 
transfers  the  human  passenger  from  the 
earthly  to  the  celestial  railroad  and  carries 
him  through  on  the  passport  of  an  immortal 
soul ;  but  no  ticket  at  all  is  quite  as  good  as 
a  forged  or  fraudulent  one,  as  some  of  us 
will  find  out,  I  am  thinking,  when  we  hand 
up  our  worthless  checks ! 


Which  would  you  rather  be  in  the  orches- 
tra of  human  life,  a  flute  or  a  trombone? 
To  be  sure,  the  latter  is  heard  the  farthest, 
but  the  quality  of  the  flute  tone  reaches 
deeper  down  into  the  soul  and  awakens 
there  dreams  without  which  a  man's  life 


is  like  bread  without  leaven,  or  a  laid  fire 
without  tinder.  I  don't  like  noisy  people, 
do  you?  People  who  talk  and  bluster  and 
swagger.  People  who  remind  us  of  blad- 
ders filled  to  the  point  of  explosion  with 
wind.  We  like  sensitive  people,  quiet- 
voiced,  deep-hearted,  earnest  people, 
with  the  quality  of  the  flute  rather  than 
that  of  the  fog-horn  in  their  make-up.  And 
yet  how  much  greater  demand  there  is  for 
bluster  than  there  is  for  force.  Sometimes 
I  am  inclined  to  think  that  life  is  a  farce 
played  with  an  earthly  setting  for  the  de- 
lectation of  the  angels,  as  we  serve  minstrel 
shows  and  burlesques.  It  isn't  the  shy  and 
the  timid  who  get  the  applause;  the  clown 
in  tinsel  and  the  end  man  in  cork  divide 
easy  honors.  And  yet,  thank  God  for 
flutes!  Thank  God  the  orchestra  isn't  en- 
tirely composed  of  trombones  and  bass 
drums. 


WHAT  I  MISS. 

I  can  get  used  to  my  darling's  dress 
That  hangs  on  the  closet  door; 

And  the  little  silent  half-worn  shoes 
That  patter  no  more  on  the  floor. 


138 


I  can  get  used  to  the  hopeless  blank 

That  greets  my  waking  eyes, 
As  they  meet  the  sight  of  the  empty  crib 

Where  no  little  nestling  lies. 

I  can  get  used  to  the  dreary  hush, 
In  the  home  which  my  darling  blest 

With   her   prattling   speech   and   her   rippling 

laugh, 
Ere  we  laid  her  away  to  rest. 

But,  ah!  the  touch  of  those  little  hands 

That  wandered  o'er  my  face, 
Like  the  wavering  fall  of  rose-leaves  soft, 

In  some  sunlit  garden  place. 

Those  dimpled  caressing  baby  hands! 

I  feel  them  again  at  night, 
And  in  dreams  I  gather  them  back  again 

From  their  harp  in  the  City  of  Light. 

My  hungry  heart  will  claim  them  still; 

I  cannot  let  them  depart. 
So  I  gather  them  back  again  in  dreams 

To  my  desolate,  breaking  heart. 


The  other  day  my  strolling  took  me  into 
a  second-hand  furniture  shop.  I  wanted  to 
find  an  ice  chest.  "Have  you  any  second- 
hand chests?"  I  asked  of  the  hoary-headed 
son  of  Erin  who  tended  the  place  and  raked 


l£tt*«     139 

in  the  shekels.  He  didn't  answer  a  word, 
but  silently  arose  and  beckoned  me  to  fol- 
low. Through  ranks  of  withered  tables 
and  blighted  chairs  I  picked  my  way  until 
my  guide  dived  down  a  gruesome  stairway 
and  then  I  stopped.  Presently  his  head 
emerged  like  a  grimy  Jack-in-the-box. 

"Is  it  an  ice  chist  yez  want?"  asked  he. 
There  was  mold  on  his  faded  cheeks  and  a 
cobweb  on  his  brow  as  he  awaited  my 
answer. 

"Must  I  go  down  there  to  find  it?"  I  in- 
quired. He  replied  in  the  affirmative. 

"Old  man,  I  will  go  no  further,"  said  I, 
"but  come  back  here  and  tell  me  the  price 
of  this  lovely  desk."  So  saying,  I  desig- 
nated a  delightful  old  claw-handled,  brass- 
mounted,  spider-legged  piece  of  furniture, 
which  might  have  been  used  by  Adam  to 
cast  up  his  accounts  on.  There  was  a  sug- 
gestion of  secret  drawers  about  it  that  was 
quite  ravishing.  The  doors  were  oddly 
shaped  little  panes  of  mirror  glass,  within 
which  I  gazed  pensively  at  a  soot  blemish 
on  my  nose.  "Is  it  the  price  of  that  yez'd 
be  afther  knowing?"  said  the  old  man,  in 
the  tone  of  one  who  dealt  with  a  harmless 
lunatic.  "I  thought  it  was  ice  chists  yez 


140 

was  afther."  "Yes,"  said  I,  drawing  out 
two  long  slabs  as  I  spoke,  such  as  were  used 
to  support  the  shelf  of  the  desk  I  remem- 
bered in  my  grandmother's  house.  "That 
bit  of  furnichoor,"  said  the  old  man,  gazing 
sadly  meanwhile  at  the  grime  of  ages  which 
I  could  not  rub  from  off  my  nose,  "is  more 
than  two  hundred  years  old."  He  stopped 
for  a  moment  to  see  if  I  would  believe  him, 
then  went  on:  "Yis,  ma'am,  that  same  is 
nearer  three  hundred  years  old,  all  told." 

Here  I  gave  him  a  look  which  stopped 
him  at  the  threshold  of  the  fourth  century. 

"Yez  may  have  it  for  $25,"  says  he. 

"I'll  give  you  five,"  says  I. 

He  turned  away  as  one  who  found  his 
mother  tongue  inadequate  to  express  the 
deep-seated  scorn  of  his  soul.  I  followed. 

"Did  yez  say  twenty?"  he  asked  stopping 
abruptly  and  facing  me  with  the  blurred 
photograph  of  what  was  once  an  engaging 
smile. 

"I  said  five,"  I  answered. 

"Well,  take  it  thin,"  said  he,  "but  it  would 
be  dirt  chape  at  fifty.  It's  not  a  day  less 
than  four  hun — " 

"Stop,"  said  I,  "if  you  add  another  cen- 
tury I'll  only  pay  you  two  and  a  half  for  it." 


glu**     141 

And  so  to-night  it  comes  to  pass  that  I 
am  writing  at  my  new  old  desk.  I  am  half 
conscious,  as  my  pencil  glides  along  the 
paper,  of  a  laughing  face,  half-hidden  by 
showers  of  falling  hair,  that  flickers  like  a 
shadow  in  and  out  of  the  soft  gloom  that 
enfolds  me.  Fingers,  light  as  air,  seem  to 
follow  the  motion  of  my  own,  and  the  ghost 
of  the  mistress  who  thought  and  wrote  at 
this  same  desk,  one,  two,  three,  four  hun- 
dred years  ago,  seems  whispering  in  my  ear. 
I  wonder  what  will  be  the  effect  if  I  read  to 
that  sweet,  gentle  woman  of  "ye  olden  time" 
a  few  bits  from  the  morning  paper. 

Madam,  are  you  aware  that  a  man  kicked 
his  wife  to  death  yesterday  because  she 
failed  to  have  his  supper  ready  for  him? 
Are  you  not  to  be  congratulated  that  you 
are  out  of  reach  of  this  latter  day  develop- 
ment of  the  human  brute?  Do  you  know 
that  the  Blank  concerts  began  this  last 
week,  and  that  the  melodies  that  throng 
the  beautiful  hall  yonder  on  the  avenue  are 
like  bands  of  singing  angels  charming  a 
world's  sorrows  to  rest?  Do  not  the  gentle 
caprices  of  the  flutes  and  the  swing  of  the 
fiddles  make  even  you,  flake  of  airy  noth- 
ingness that  you  are!  dance  like  a  thistle- 


142 

down  in  a  summer  breeze?  Madam,  do 
you  know,  and  how  does  it  affect  you  to 
know,  that  there  are  bargain  sales  in  town 
where  you  can  buy  a  gown  for  a  song,  and 
a  pair  of  all-wool  blankets  for  the  worth  of 
a  dream?  In  your  long  time  disembodied 
state  have  you  yet  reached  a  point,  I  wonder, 
when  such  news  as  this  can  no  longer  thrill 
a  woman's  heart?  If  so,  madam,  you  are 
truly  and  undeniably  dead,  and  your  room 
is  better  than  your  company.  I  bid  you  a 
gentle  good  evening. 


Among  the  many  things  I  shall  be  glad 
to  find  out  some  day  will  be  why,  in  spite  of 
heroic  effort  to  keep  it  straight,  my  hat 
always  gets  crooked  and  my  hair  becomes 
disordered  on  the  march.  I  thoroughly  de- 
test the  sight  of  a  typical  "blue-stocking," 
or  a  literary  woman  who  affects  a  sublime 
superiority  to  appearances,  and  yet  Mrs. 
Jellyby  was  nowhere  as  to  general  de- 
moralization of  raiment  compared  to  my 
unfortunate  self.  Taking  my  seat  in  a 
down-town  restaurant  the  other  day,  I 
found  myself  surrounded  by  half  a  dozen 


143 

girls  as  bright  and  pretty  and  jolly  as  girls 
go.  No  sooner  was  I  seated  than  the  whis- 
per went  round  that  a  newspaper  woman 
had  invaded  the  party.  "Looks  like  one," 
murmured  the  plumpest  one  of  the  lot,  and 
I  could  have  cried.  "Girls,"  I  wanted  to 
say,  "judge  not  by  appearances.  The  best 
Christians  sometimes  have  red  noses,  just 
as  the  j oiliest  literary  folks  have  frowsy  hair 
and  abandoned  hats.  They  can't  help  it,  my 
dears,  any  more  than  a  black  cat  can  help 
being  somber.  It  is  never  safe  to  condemn 
anybody,  not  even  a  poor,  miserable  scrib- 
bler for  the  press,  on  circumstantial  evi- 
dence. You  see  a  crooked  hat,  electric 
hair,  and  that  is  all.  Put  on  Titbottom 
spectacles  and  look  deeper.  Perhaps  you 
will  then  see  an  anguish-stricken  woman  ris- 
ing at  5  a.  m.  to  make  herself  smart  for 
the  day.  You  will  note  how  carefully  she 
adjusts  the  feeble  adjuncts  to  her  toilet,  how 
she  places  her  hat  on  straight  and  secures 
it  with  a  cast-iron  cable!  How  she  combs 
out  her  curls  and  sticks  a  feathery  kerchief 
within  her  belt.  Two  hours  later  the  cable 
hat-pin  has  been  struck  by  a  tidal-wave  and 
swept  from  its  anchorage;  the  curls  have 
degenerated  into  wisps  of  wind-tossed  hay; 


144        j00jema?     ewfc 


and  the  kerchief?  Gone  as  a  feather  is 
gone  when  the  summer  tempest  gets  be- 
hind it!  We  mean  well,  girls.  We  want 
to  look  trim  and  slick  and  span.  All  of  us 
poor  literary  people  do,  but  we  can't  bring  it 
about.  Life  is  so  everlastingly  full,  any- 
way, that  it  seems  preposterous  to  spend 
more  than  half  one's  time  in  getting  fixed 
up.  Sometimes  I  am  foolish  enough  to  be- 
lieve that  good  St.  Peter,  when  we  come 
toiling  up  to  his  gate,  won't  look  so  much  to 
the  condition  of  our  hats  and  our  hair  as 
he  will  to  the  way  we  wear  our  souls.  If 
they  are  tip-tilted  and  frowsy  it  may  go  a 
little  bit  hard  with  us.  Of  course,  it  is  a 
good  thing  to  be  able  to  wear  a  hat  straight, 
and  be  remarked  for  your  pretty  hair  and 
generally  pleasing  appearance,  but  I  declare 
to  you  if  it  comes  to  a  question  of  mental 
array  and  soul-correction  as  opposed  to 
style  and  good  form,  I  am  willing  to  choose 
the  former  and  be  laughed  at  now  and  then 
by  saucy  girls." 


That's  right.     Stand  on  shore  and  beat 
him  back  when  he  attempts  to  make  a  land- 


145 

ing.  If  necessary,  club  him  under  water 
and  congratulate  yourself  that  you  are  so 
self-righteous  and  everlastingly  holy  that 
nobody  can  get  a  chance  to  swing  a  club  at 
you.  What  is  this  half-dead  thing  that  is 
trying  to  force  its  way  onto  dry  land  from 
the  whelming  waters  of  temptation  and 
misery?  A  rat?  Oh,  no;  only  a  human 
creature  like  yourself.  Sin  overtaken  and 
subdued  by  evil.  He  is  young,  perhaps, 
and  never  had  a  mother's  care  or  a  father's 
training.  He  has  drifted  with  easy  currents 
into  dangerous  waters,  and  the  devil,  who 
lurks  beneath  the  flood,  is  trying  to  snatch 
him  down  to  hell!  Raise  your  club  and 
give  him  a  clip!  The  audacity  of  such  a 
boy  trying  to  be  anything  with  such  a  rec- 
ord behind  him!  Oh,  I  am  sick  of  you  all, 
you  omniverous  feeders  on  reputation,  you 
unveilers  of  past  records  of  shame !  I  hope 
in  my  heart  that  if  ever  you  get  your  own 
foot  on  the  threshold  of  some  haven  of 
relief,  after  a  tight  tussle  with  danger  and 
death,  an  angel  will  stand  over  against 
the  doorway  with  a  flaming  sword  and  de- 
mand to  see  your  credentials.  No  hope  of 
that,  though.  Angels  are  not  up  to  that 
sort  of  work;  it  is  left  to  "men,  and  some- 
times— God  pity  us  all ! — to  women. 
10 


146     |£0*emarg  mib 


If  you  expect  to  escape  criticism,  girls,  in 
this  world,  you  will  put  yourselves  very 
much  in  the  plight  of  flower-roots  that  ex- 
pect to  grow  without  the  discipline  of  the 
hoe.  Before  we  can  amount  to  anything 
either  in  blossom  or  as  fruit,  we  must  un- 
dergo much  honest  criticism,  and  of  such 
we  need  never  be  afraid.  A  candid  and 
above-board  enemy  is  of  far  more  benefit, 
often,  than  a  timid  friend,  who,  seeing  our 
faults,  is  afraid  to  tell  us  of  them.  The  fact 
that  boys  stone  certain  trees  and  pass  others 
by,  is  explained  when  we  find  that  the 
stones  are  always  thrown  at  the  fruit-bear- 
ing trees.  And  so  with  character;  the  fact 
that  we  are  criticized  proves  that  we  are 
something  better  than  scrub-oak  saplings. 
But  all  criticism  that  does  not  make  us 
grow,  and  put  forth  fairer  and  richer  blos- 
soms, is  like  a  hoe  made  of  wood,  or  a  cul- 
tivator without  power  applied  to  cause  it 
to  destroy  the  weeds.  If  the  unanimous 
verdict  of  the  community  in  which  we  live 
asserts  that  we  are  proud,  or  ill-natured,  or 
lazy,  we  may  be  pretty  sure  that  there  is 


tmfc    lu?,     147 


some  cause  for  the  application  of  that  par- 
ticular stroke  of  the  hoe,  and  the  sooner  we 
set  about  seeking  to  remedy  the  evil,  the 
better  for  our  next  world's  crop  of  blos- 
soms. Nobody  (save  One)  was  ever  yet 
maligned  without  some  little  cause.  Those 
who  come  in  contact  with  you  at  home  may 
not  see  little  blemishes  upon  your  conduct 
or  character  which  those  who  meet  you 
in  business  may  detect.  For  instance,  to 
the  folks  at  home  you  never  put  on  that 
indifferent  and  languid  air  to  which  you 
treat  the  customer  who  drops  in  to  buy 
ribbon,  or  the  woman  who  asks  you  a  ques- 
tion at  your  office  desk.  The  customer  and 
the  questioner  go  away  with  an  estimate 
of  your  behavior  very  unlike  the  one  held 
at  home,  where  you  are  frank  and  cheerful, 
and  willing  to  please.  And,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  party  with  whom  you  associate 
casually  in  business,  or  with  whom  you  ride 
daily  to  and  from  your  office  and  your  home, 
has  no  conception  how  snappy  and  snarly 
you  can  be  when  none  but  familiar  ears  are 
open  to  your  surly  complaints. 

The  statement  from  your  little  brother  or 
sister  that  you  are  a  "cross  old  thing"  would 
hardly  be  believed  by  those  who  meet  you 


away  from  home.  And  yet  the  hoe  in  the 
little  hands  strikes  at  a  weed  that  threatens 
to  make  havoc  in  the  garden.  Better  look 
to  it,  dearie,  before  the  ugly  thing  quite 
overtops  the  mignonette  and  the  pinks! 
Whenever  you  hear  of  an  adverse  criticism 
set  to  find  the  weed  somewhere  in  your 
character.  I  believe  firmly  that  every  one 
of  us  was  born  into  the  world  with  capa- 
bilities for  almost  every  evil  under  the  sun 
if  environment  favors  the  development. 
Like  a  garden  patch,  the  roots  of  the  weeds 
lie  already  deep,  the  flower  seeds  must  be 
sown.  And  no  gardener  ever  struggled 
with  "pusley"  and  burdock  as  we  must  strug- 
gle with  the  evil  crop,  heredity-sown. 
Thanks  be  to  the  quick  eye,  then,  be  it  of 
friend  or  foe,  who  discerns  the  weed  before 
we  do,  and  whips  out  the  hoe  to  attack 
it.  We  are  not  exactly  pleased  when  it  is 
borne  in  upon  us  through  the  criticism  of 
some  acquaintance  or  neighbor,  that  we  are 
selfish  in  little  things.  Our  folks  don't  say 
so,  and  we  try  to  believe  the  charge  is  a 
libel.  Next  time  you  throw  your  banana 
skin  heedlessly  on  the  pavement,  or  crowd 
into  a  seat  without  a  "by  your  leave,"  or 
refuse  to  move  up  in  a  crowded  car,  or 


ant*    £u«*     149 


open  your  window  without  asking  if  it  be 
agreeable  to  the  person  behind  you,  or  eat 
peanuts  and  throw  the  shucks  on  the  floor 
instead  of  out  of  the  window,  or  see  a  lady 
going  by  with  a  disarranged  dress  and  don't 
tell  her  of  it,  or  return  an  indifferent  answer 
to  a  civil  question,  or  refuse  the  sweet  ser- 
vice of  a  smile  and  a  gentle  look  to  the  hum- 
blest wayfarer  that  jostles  you  on  the  road, 
just  remember  the  criticism,  and  see  if  there 
is  not  occasion  for  it.  Set  about  correcting 
the  little  faults,  and  the  great  ones  leave  to 
God.  He  will  keep  you,  no  doubt,  from  theft, 
and  murder,  and  perjury,  but  you  don't 
ask  or  seem  to  stand  in  need  of  His  help 
in  getting  rid  of  temptations  to  be  mean  and 
selfish,  and  discourteous  and  lazy. 

What  would  you  think  of  a  gardener  who 
went  about  with  a  spade  seeking  to  exter- 
minate nothing  but  Canada  thistles,  and  let 
alt  the  rest  of  'the  weeds  go?'  It  is  not  often 
that  so  big  and  determinate  a  thing  as'  a 
Canada  thistle  gets  in  among'  the  roses,  and 
w'h'eri  it  d0es  it  -is  quic'kly'  dispose"  dot  'But 
oh,  the  wee  growths!  The  tiny  shoots  :  that 
come  up  faster  than  flies  swarm  in  dog- 
days,  and  need  to  be  forever  stood  over 
against  with  a  steady  hand  and  a  hoe.  If  my 


150      Baecmttru  anb 


neighbor  comes  out  and  charges  me  with 
stealing  a  barrel  of  flour  from  her  store- 
house, or  attacking  her  first-born  with  a 
meat-axe,  I  can  quickly  disprove  that  sort 
of  a  charge;  but  when  she  says  that  I  am 
unprincipled  because  I  steal  in  and  coax  her 
girl  away  from  her  with  the  offer  of  higher 
wages  —  how  is  that?  Or  that  I  am  selfish 
because  she  sees  me  let  my  old  mother  wait 
on  me  to  what  I  am  able  to  get  myself; 
or  cross,  because  I  am  untender  to  the  chil- 
dren; or  untruthful,  because  I  instruct  the 
servant  to  say  I  am  "not  at  home"  when  I 
am,  how  am  I  going  to  dispose  of  those 
charges?  Sure  as  you  live,  there  are  weeds 
in  front  of  such  hoe  strokes,  and  with  heav- 
en's help  we'll  get  rid  of  'em. 

Cultivate  your  critics,  then,  provided  they 
be  honest  and  fair-dealing.  Avoid  only 
such  as  strike  in  the  dark.  The  man  who 
goes  out  to  hoe  weeds  in  the  night  time  is 
not  to  be  trusted,  and  the  enemy  who  resorts 
to  the  underhand  methods  of  backbiting 
and  scandal  to  do  his  work,  is  not  worth 
talking  about,  much  less  heeding.  Take 
criticism  that  is  fair  and  open,  as  you  occa- 
sionally take  quinine,  to  tone  up  the  system 
and  dissipate  the  malaria  of  sloth  and  iner- 


ant*  3ait*r*     161 

tia.  Only  they  shall  come  into  the  festival 
by  and  by,  bearing  garlands  of  roses,  and 
wreaths  of  hearts'  delight  and  balm,  who 
have  welcomed  the  strong  stroke  of  the  hoe 
at  the  root  of  every  blossom  to  bear  down 
the  weeds  and  loosen  the  tough  and  sun- 
baked soil. 
As  Charles  Kingsley  says : 

"My  fairest  child,  I  have  no  song  to  give  you; 
No  lark  could  pipe  'neath  skiee  so  dull  and 

gray; 

Yet,  ere  we  part,  one  lesson  I  can  leave  you 
For  every  day: 

"Be   good,   sweet   maid,    and    let   who   will    be 

clever; 

Do  noble  things,  not  dream  them,  all  day  long, 
And  so  make  life,  death  and  that  vast  forever 
One  grand,  sweet  song." 


See  that  half-grown  man?  He  never  will 
know  as  much  again  as  he  does  now  at 
the  ripe  age  of  twenty.  When  he  gets  to 
be  fifty,  when  his  hair  is  grizzled  and  his 
hopes  are  like  the  dead  leaves  that  cling 
to  November  trees,  he  will  look  back  upon 
these  years  of  rare  wisdom  and  colossal 


152 


effrontery  and  blush  a  little,  perhaps,  at  the 
recollection.  Now  he  has  no  reverence  for 
a  woman  or  for  God.  He  sneers  at  good 
in  a  world  whose  threshold  he  has  barely 
crossed,  as  a  year-old  child  might  stand  in 
the  doorway  of  his  nursery  and  denounce 
what  was  going  on  in  the  drawing-room. 
Most  of  the  scathing  things  that  are  said 
about  domestic  felicity,  and  the  sneers  that 
are  bestowed  on  love,  and  the  gibes  that 
are  flung  at  purity,  and  the  scoffs  that  are 
launched  at  established  religions;  all  the 
jokes  at  the  expense  of  noble  womanhood 
and  the  witticisms  that  are  lavished  upon 
the  old-fashioned  virtues,  spring  from  the 
gigantic  brain  of  the  youth  of  the  period. 


Often  as  I  pass  along  the  streets  of  this 
town  I  notice  certain  places  which  I  do  not 
burn  down,  nor  tear  down,  nor  otherwise 
demolish,  merely  because  of  inherent  cow- 
ardice and  inadequate  strength.  If  -I  had  a 
wide-awake,  growing  boy  I  would  no  more 
turn  him  loose  in  your  town,  Mr.  Alderman, 
than  I  would  cut  his  throat  with  my  own 
hand.  Not,  certainly,  if  there  was  a  spark 


ant*  itu*,     153 

of  human  nature  within  him,  and  a  boy 
without  such  a  spark  is  hardly  worth  rais- 
ing. And  more  than  that,  I  will  say  this, 
that  what  with  your  saloons  and  your  wide- 
open  gambling  resorts,  and  your  doorways 
of  hell,  wherein  sit  spiders  luring  flies,  it 
has  come  to  pass  that  every  mother  whose 
boy  encounters  harm  thereby  should  be  en- 
titled to  damages  at  least  as  great  as  juries 
award  a  careless  pedestrian  who  gets  his 
legs  cut  off  at  a  railway  crossing.  You  say 
that  laws  are  inadequate  to  cope  with  evils 
of  this  kind ;  if  that  is  so,  then  an  outraged 
citizenhood  should  rise  superior  to  law,  and 
enter  upon  a  crusade  to  destroy  the  infa- 
mous dens  that  decoy  our  boys.  On  a  cer- 
tain downtown  street  there  is  a  newly  opened 
resort,  the  windows  of  which  are  closely 
draped,  and  before  the  door  of  which  a 
placard  is  suspended  which  invites  only  men 
to  enter  within.  Now  and  then  a  hideously 
ugly  man,  with  a  yellow  beard,  comes  to  the 
ticket  window  and  looks  out  like  a  taran- 
tula from  its  hole,  but  in  the" main  the  place 
seems  absolutely  unfrequented. 

Take  your  stand  and  watch  for  awhile, 
though,  and  you  will  see  young  men  and 
small  boys,  old  men  and  slouching  repro- 


154 


bates  of  all  conditions  and  colors  going  in 
and  coming  out  by  dozens.  Why  doesn't 
some  good  citizen  enter  a  complaint  of  that 
place  and  break  it  up?  We  would  pounce 
upon  a  smallpox  case  soon  enough  wherever 
it  might  lurk,  but  we  are  strangely  indiffer- 
ent where  the  menace  is  only  to  the  soul. 

How  can  we  expect  to  keep  our  boys 
pure  and  raise  them  to  lives  of  usefulness 
when  such  iniquitous  places  are  run  wide 
open  on  public  streets  at  noonday,  granting 
admission  to  all  masculinity  between  the 
ages  of  7  and  70? 

A  well-guarded  youth  is  supposed  to  be 
at  home  in  the  night  time  and  not  to  be  fre- 
quenting shy  neighborhoods  at  any  hour. 
So  that  we  might  feel  comparatively  safe 
about  the  boy  we  send  out  into  the  world 
at  an  early  age  to  begin  his  career  as  errand 
boy  or  messenger  if  these  pernicious  decoys 
were  maintained  only  at  night  and  in  low 
vicinities.  When  the  trap  is  set,  however, 
right  in  the  business  center  of  the  town  by 
daylight,  what  safety  have  we?  Whenever 
I  look  into  the  face  of  an  eager,  bright, 
curious,  thoroughly  alive  boy  I  feel  like 
shaking  every  other  duty  of  life  and  going 
forth  to  do  battle  with  the  devil  for  that 
lad's  soul. 


anfc  f^us,.      155 

Why  should  evil  have  so  much  greater 
chance  than  good?  For  one  reason  I  don't 
believe  we  make  the  good  attractive  enough. 
The  devil  has  stolen  the  trademark  of  light 
for  half  his  wares.  Why  not  have  more 
fun  and  frolic  in  the  home?  Why  not  add 
a  gymnasium  and  dancing  hall  to  the  Sun- 
day school  and  filter  some  of  the  world's 
innocent  sunshine  inside  its  gloomy  walls? 
Why  may  not  the  eager,  active  heart  of 
youth  find  its  good  cheer  and  jollity  some- 
where else  than  in  forbidden  places  and 
among  smooth  and  unscrupulous  knaves? 
If  we  made  our  churches  less  austere  and 
their  gatherings  more  alluring  to  the  young, 
these  low  and  vicious  resorts  might  close 
for  lack  of  patronage. 

God  bless  the  boys.  I  love  them  next 
best  to  girls,  and  sometimes  even  a  little 
better,  when  they  are  especially  frank  and 
brave  and  true.  I  am  not  going  to  see 
them  harmed  without  a  protest,  either,  and 
I  would  be  one  of  a  crowd  this  very  day 
to  march  upbn  the  resorts  of  evil,  that  He 
in  wait,  all  over  town,  to  destroy  the  bonnie 
fellows.  If  I  had  my  way,  every  man  or 
woman  who  makes  money  by  pandering  to 
the  curiosity  of  a  boy's  nature,  inciting  to 


156 

unworthy  passion  by  means  of  lewd  pic- 
tures and  the  like,  should  be  consigned  to 
instant  perdition.  The  earth  is  too  hal- 
lowed to  receive  their  vile  dust! 


Dear  girls,  if  you  would  be  beautiful  with 
the  beauty  that  strikes  root  in  heaven,  first 
of  all  be  natural.  Be  true  to  something 
within  you  higher  than  any  conventional 
code  or  worldly  wise  mandate.  If  it  is  your 
natural  impulse  to  be  courteous,  and  sym- 
pathetic, and  sweet  (and  blessed  be  the  fact, 
it  is  the  natural  impulse  of  most  girls  so 
to  be!),  don't  let  miserable  conformity  and 
its  tricksters  exchange  your  genuine  blos- 
som for  a  mere  shred  of  painted  muslin, 
fashioned  though  it  be  after  even  so  perfect 
a  similitude  of  a  rose.  The  birds  of  the  air 
nor  the  ^angels  in  heaven  will  ever  be  fooled 
by  any  artificial  rose,  let  me  tell  you,  how- 
ever much  dudes  and  society  feather-heads 
"may  pretend  to~  desire  it  Grow  for  some- 
thing better  than  this  world ;  wear  your 
sweetness  in  your  heart  rather  than  on  your 
pocket  handkerchief. 


is? 


The  great  drawback  to  domestic  felicity 
often  lies  in  the  fact  that  we  get  too  familiar 
with  one  another.  There  should  be  a  cer- 
tain reserve  in  the  most  intimate  relation- 
ships. Sisters  and  brothers  have  no  right 
to  burst  into  one  another's  private  rooms 
without  knocking.  Wives  have  no  more 
right  to  search  their  husband's  pockets  than 
they  have  to  do  the  same  little  service  for  a 
distant  acquaintance.  I  have  no  right  to 
read  the  Young  Person's  letters  without  per- 
mission, although  I  have  a  right  to  win  her 
confidence  so  that  she  shows  them  freely. 
The  Captain  has  no  more  right  to  visit  the 
Boy's  bank  for  pennies  because  he  is  her 
brother,  than  she  has  to  abstract  money  from 
the  grocery-man's  till.  You  have  no  more 
right  to  obtrude  your  conversation  upon 
your  wife,  nor  she  upon  her  husband,  when 
either  is  in  the  middle  of  a  thrilling  story, 
than  you  or  she  would  have  to  interrupt  the 
Queen  of  England  at  her  devotions.  An 
"excuse  me,"  if  a  mother  is  obliged  to  in- 
terrupt her  youngest  child's  babble,  is  quite 
as  good  a  way  to  teach  the  baby  manners 


as  a  course  of  lectures  later  on  etiquette.  The 
man  who  gets  up  and  slams  shut  the  ven- 
tilator in  a  crowded  car  to  suit  his  own  con- 
venience, or  the  woman  who  throws  open 
a  car-window  regardless  of  the  occupants 
of  the  seat  behind  her,  is  no  ruder  than  Bess 
is  when  she  ignores  brother  Tom's  com- 
fort at  home,  or  Tom  is  when  he  pounces  for 
the  biggest  orange  on  the  plate  when  only 
Bess  and  he  are  at  table.  When  either 
makes  rude  remarks  to  the  other,  they  sin 
against  the  true  code  of  etiquette  more  than 
when  they  are  discourteous  at  a  party  or 
boisterously  unkind  with  a  comrade,  just  as 
he  is  more  criminally  careless  who  pounds 
a  piano  to  pieces  with  a  hammer  than  he 
who  batters  the  pine  case  it  was  brought 
in.  The  greater  the  value  of  the  article, 
the  choicer  we  are  supposed  to  be  of  it, 
and  in  the  same  line  of  argument,  the 
dearer  and  closer  the  tie  that  binds  us,  the 
more  considerate  we  should  be  in  the  han- 
dling of  it.  I  may  hurt  the  feelings  of  a 
society  acquaintance,  and  there  is  restitution 
and  forgiveness,  but  when  I  stab  the  dear 
old  mother's  heart  with  an  unkind  word, 
or  wound  my  child's  feelings  with  an  injus- 
tice or  a  cruelty,  or  ridicule  the  sensitive 


-Mm,      169 

feelings  of  a  brother  or  a  sister,  not  eternity 
itself  shall  be  long  enough  to  extract  the 
sting  from  my  memory  when  uny  dear  ones 
are  dead  and  love's  opportunity  is  vanished 
forever. 

Study  politeness,  then,  which  is  the  body- 
guard of  love,  and  build  up  for  yourself 
the  structure  of  a  happy  home. 


Has  it  been  borne  in  upon  you  what  radi- 
ant mornings  and  September  nights  the  last 
two  weeks  have  brought  in?  Have  you 
stopped,  Mr.  Busyman,  to  note  the  wonder 
of  the  skies,  never  so  glorious  as  of  late? 
Did  you  see  the  sunset  the  other  evening 
when  a  gigantic  cloud  stood  almost  zenith 
high  against  the  flaming  west,  and  took  on 
for  a  time  the  panoply  of  a  king?  Did  you 
notice  the  purple  center  and  the  dazzling 
edge,  with  the  rose  blush  that  fringed  its 
borders?  Did  you  see  it  pale  to  gray  and 
vanish  like  a  ghost  into  the  starry  night? 
Do  you  ever  stop,  Mrs.  Featherhead,  to 
mark  the  beauty  of  our  wayside  clover  or 
the  sparkle  of  a  buttercup  in  the  dew?  Have 
you  found  the  nooks  where,  like  shy  chil- 


160 

dren,  the  violets  cluster?  Did  you  mark  a 
certain  day,  a  week  or  so  ago,  when  the 
heavens  were  full  of  cloud  battalions,  tak- 
ing new  shapes  every  minute,  and  often  dis- 
solving in  long  lines  of  purple  rain,  shot 
through  with  stitches  of  golden  light? 
Have  you  seen  the  lake  lately,  as  blue  as  a 
heather  bell,  as  wild  as  a  wood-bird,  as 
peaceful  as  a  brooding  dove?  Where  were 
you  the  other  night  when  out  of  the  sullen 
storm  cloud  the  "light  that  never  was  on 
land  or  sea"  enfolded  us,  and  the  world 
hung  like  an  emerald  in  a  topaz  sky? 


No  law  of  morals  should  be  less  arbi- 
trary for  men  than  it  is  for  women.  An 
impure  heart,  a  riotous  appetite,  a  profane 
tongue,  are  no  more  excusable  in  a  man 
than  they  are  in  a  woman.  If  a  man  is 
supposed  to  shrink  from  selecting  his  wife 
among  the  unclean  in  thought  and  immoral 
of  practice,  why  should  not  a  young  girl  be 
allowed  an  undefiled  selection?  When 
girls  grow  so  queenly  natured  that  they 
demand  that  their  lover  should  be  of  the 
royal  stock  and  never  demean  themselves 


to  stoop  to  mate  with  impurity  and  profli- 
gacy just  because  it  carries  a  handsome  face 
and  a  well-filled  pocketbook,  there  will  be 
some  chance  for  happiness  in  the  married 
estate.  It  is  this  placing  white  flowers  in 
smutty  buttonholes,  or,  in  other  words, 
the  wedding  of  pure  women  to  blase  and 
wicked  men,  that  sows  the  seed  of  the  tare 
in  what  was  meant  by  the  primal  law  to  be 
a  harvest  of  golden  grain.  Do  you  pick 
slug-eaten  roses  and  wind-fall  blossoms? 
When  you  go  forth  to  buy  material  for 
a  new  gown  do  you  choose  cotton  warp 
fabrics  and  colors  that  will  fade  in  the 
first  washing?  Your  answers  to  all  these 
question  are  prompt  enough,  but  when  I 
ask  you  what  choice  you  make  of  gentle- 
men friends,  you  are  not  quite  so  ready 
with  a  reply.  Do  you  choose  the  young 
man  who  has  a  clean  record,  who  neither 
drinks  nor  wastes  his  money  in  riotous 
practices?  How  about  the  tobacco  chew- 
ers  and  the  swearers?  How  about  the  lewd 
jesters  and  the  low-minded?  Provided  he 
wears  fine  clothes,  can  dance  well  and  make 
a  good  appearance  in  society,  and  above  all 
can  give  you  a  handsome  diamond  for  an 
engagement  ring,  are  you  not  willing  to 


162 

accept  a  lover  in  spite  of  his  known  repu- 
tation as  a  fast  young  man  about  town? 
Girls,  you  had  much  better  choose  a  specked 
peach  for  canning  than  such  a  man  for  a 
husband.  Do  you  imagine  that  by  and  by 
at  the  upper  court,  whither  we  are  all  has- 
tening as  quickly  as  the  old  patrol  wagon  of 
time  can  carry  us,  there  will  be  any  dis- 
tinction made  between  men  and  women? 
Think  you  a  man  is  going  to  get  off  easier 
than  a  sorrowful  and  sinful  woman  merely 
because  the  world  falsely  taught  him  that 
the  exigencies  of  his  nature  demanded 
greater  latitude  than  hers? 


You  may  retouch  a  faded  picture,  you 
may  patch  up  an  old  piano,  you  may  mend 
a  shattered  vase,  but  you  cannot  make  a 
plucked  rose  grow  again;  it  will  wither  and 
die  in  spite  of  every  effort  to  restore  it  to  the 
stem  from  which  it  fell.  And  so  with  the 
heart  from  which  a  low  desire  in  the  guise 
of  an  alluring  temptation  has  snatched  the 
flower  of  innocence.  That  heart  will  fade 
into  hopeless  loss  unless  a  greater  love  than 
yours  or  mine  intervenes  to  save.  An  im- 
pure soul  never  started  out  impure  from  the 


163 

first  any  more  than  a  peach  was  decayed 
in  the  blossom.  It  is  the  small  beginnings, 
dear  girls,  that  lead  up  to  the  bitter  end- 
ings. The  impure  book  read  on  the  sly, 
the  questionable  jest  laughed  at  in  secret, 
the  talk  indulged  in  with  a  schoolmate  or 
a  friend  which  you  would  be  unwilling  for 
"mother"  to  hear,  the  horrible  card  circu- 
lated under  the  desk  or  behind  the  teacher's 
back,  those  are  the  beginnings  of  an  ending 
sadder  than  the  blight  of  any  desolation 
that  storm  or  drought  or  frost  can  bring 
upon  the  blossoms.  If  I  only  could,  how 
gladly  I  would  dip  my  pen  to-night  in  a 
light  that  should  outshine  the  electric  splen- 
dor of  our  streets  and  write  a  message 
against  the  dark  background  of  the  sky,  to 
startle  young  girls  into  the  realization  of  the 
danger  that  lurks  in  the  first  indulgence  of 
thoughts  and  companionships  that  are  not 
pure.  Avoid  all  such  as  you  would  avoid 
the  contagion  of  small-pox,  and  a  thousand 
times  more.  Small-pox,  at  its  worst,  can 
only  mar  the  body,  but  the  friend  who  lends 
you  bad  books  or  tells  you  "smutty"  stories 
proffers  a  contagion  to  your  soul  which  all 
the  fountains  of  all  your  tears  can  never 
cleanse  away. 


164 


THIS  BABY  OF  OURS. 

There's  not  a  blossom  of  beautiful  May, 
Silver  of  daisy,  or  daffodil  gay, 
Nor  the  rosy  bloom  of  apple  tree  flowers, 
Fair  as  the  face  of  this  baby  of  ours. 

You  could  never  find,  on  a  bright  June  day, 
A  bit  of  fair  sky  so  cheery  and  gay; 
Nor  the  haze  on  the  hills  in  noonday  hours, 
Blue  as  the  eyes  of  this  baby  of  ours. 

There's  not  a  murmur  of  wakening  bird — 
The  clearest,  sweetest,  that  ever  was  heard 
In  the  tender  hush  of  the  dawn's  still  hours — 
Soft  as  the  laugh  of  this  baby  of  ours. 

There's  no  gossamer  silk  of  tasseled  corn, 
Nor  the  flimsiest  thread  of  the  shy  wood  fern — 
Not  even  the  cobwebs  spread  over  the  flowers — 
Fine  as  the  hair  of  this  baby  of  ours. 

There's  no  fairy  shell  by  the  sounding  sea, 
No  wild  rose  that  nods  on  the  windy  lea, 
No  blush  of  the  sun  through  April's  showers, 
Pink  as  the  palm  of  this  baby  of  ours. 


Don't  you  get  awfully  tired  of  people  who 
are  always   croaking?      A   frog  in   a   big, 


165 


damp,  malarial  pond  is  expected  to  make 
all  the  fuss  he  can  in  protest  of  his  surround- 
ings. But  a  man!  Destined  for  a  crown, 
and  born  that  he  may  be  educated  for  the 
court  of  a  king!  Placed  in  an  emerald  world 
with  a  hither  side  of  opaline  shadow,  and  a 
fine  dust  of  diamonds  to  set  it  sparkling 
when  winter  days  are  flying;  with  ten  mil- 
lion singing  birds  to  make  it  musical,  and 
twice  ten  million  flowers  to  make  it  sweet; 
with  countless  stars  to  light  it  up  with  fiery 
splendor,  and  white,  new  moons  to  wrap  it 
round  with  mystery;  with  other  souls  within 
it  to  love  and  make  happy,  and  the  hand  of 
God  to  uphold  it  on  its  rushing  way  among 
the  countless  worlds  that  crowd  its  path: 
what  right  has  a  man  to  find  fault  with  such 
a  world? 

When  the  woodtick  shall  gain  a  hearing, 
as  he  complains  that  the  grand  old  century 
oak  is  unfit  to  shelter  him,  or  the  bluebird 
be  hearkened  to  when  he  murmurs  that  the 
horizon  is  off  color,  and  does  not  match  his 
wings,  then,  I  think,  it  will  be  time  for  man 
to  find  fault  with  the  appointments  of  the 
magnificent  sphere  he  inhabits. 

"It  is  a  fine  day!"  remarks  Miss  Cherry- 
lips. 


166 


"Too  cold,"  says  the  croaker;  "beastly 
wind,  not  fit  for  a  dog  to  breathe." 

Oh,  yes,  my  dear,  I  heard  him  say  it  this 
very  morning,  and  while  I  sat  and  listened 
to  him  I  could  but  think  to  myself,  "What 
would  become  of  the  croaker  without  the 
weather  topic  to  fall  back  upon?"  When  all 
else  failed  him,he  is  sure  to  have  something 
to  find  fault  with  within  the  range  of  this 
universal  and  inexhaustible  topic.  It  is  too 
warm  or  too  cold;  there  is  too  much  rain, 
or  there  is  a  drought;  the  winters  are  chang- 
ing and  microbes  are  on  the  increase;  the 
peach  buds  are  blighted  by  a  cold  snap  in 
spring,  and  the  potatoes  have  failed  or  are 
about  to  fail,  owing  to  a  wet  June. 

That  is  the  way  the  croaker  holds  forth 
whenever  he  can  get  anybody  to  listen  to 
him.  I  sometimes  wonder  what  he  would 
do  if  he  really  had  great  things  to  fret  about  ; 
if  one  of  his  beautiful  children  were  to  die, 
or  the  faithful  wife  he  loves  so  well  in  his 
heart,  perhaps,  but  never  takes  the  trouble 
to  acquaint  with  the  fact,  were  to  weary  of 
his  endless  faultfinding  and  steal  away  from 
it  all  into  the  quietude  of  the  grave.  I  won- 
der if  he  would  not  then  look  back  upon 
these  days  of  "croaking"  with  amazement 
that  he  was  ever  so  blind  and  stupid  a  fool. 


I  knew  a  woman  once  who  was  very,  very 
charming.  She  could  sing  "Allan  Percy"  in 
a  way  that  would  melt  the  heart  within  you. 
She  could  paint  on  china  and  decorate  the 
panels  of  doors,  and  on  the  whole  she  was 
calculated  to  enjoy  life  and  make  it  enjoya- 
ble for  others.  But  her  home,  on  the  con- 
trary, was  utterly  devoid  of  peace  and  com- 
fort. Her  husband  took  no  pleasure  there, 
although  he  was  lavish  in  the  expenditure 
of  money  to  render  the  place  attractive.  Her 
children  were  glad  to  get  away  from  their 
home  and  find  otherwhere  the  freedom  and 
gaiety  denied  them  there.  Why  was  all 
this,  when  the  mother  was  so  eminently 
fitted  by  grace  and  accomplishments  to 
create  a  beautiful  and  happy  home?  Sim- 
ply because  she  was  always  fretting  and 
fussing  about  trifles.  She  was  a  croaker  and 
always  finding  fault  She  fought  flies  until 
life  was  a  burden  to  everybody  who  watched 
her.  She  said  that  they  would  spoil  the  paint, 
poison  the  food  and  ruin  the  curtains.  She 
was  after  them  at  early  dawn  nor  gave  over 
the  chase  until  late  at  night.  She  would 
leave  the  dinner  table  to  chase  a  fly  and  kill 
it  with  a  folded  paper.  She  would  stop  the 
lullaby  song  she  was  singing  to  her  pretty 


168         0#£mciry;  ctntr 


baby,  to  get  up  and  call  somebody  to  come 
in  and  hunt  a  stray  blue-bottle  that  was 
bunting  its  stupid  head  against  the  window 
screen.  She  said  that  her  life  wasn't  worth 
a  farthing  to  her  if  the  flies  got  into  her 
home,  and  she  would  sooner  jump  in  the 
river  than  submit  to  the  pestilential  inflic- 
tion. Then  she  was  forever  prophesying 
some  dreadful  fate  for  herself  by  reason  of 
the  muddy  footprints  that  occasionally 
found  their  way  onto  the  carpets. 

"I  declare,"  she  would  say,  "if  you  boys 
don't  stop  tracking  dirt  into  the  house  I'll 
die  before  my  time.  If  there  is  anything  I 
hate  it  is  a  careless  boy  !" 

And  the  boys  took  her  at  her  word  and 
stopped  tracking  mud.  But  they  were 
gradually  lured  to  stay  away  from  home,  and 
the  soil  they  took  into  their  hearts  was  per- 
haps harder  to  efface  than  the  footmarks 
they  left  upon  the  floor  of  mother's  neatly 
kept  hallways. 

She  was  always  anticipating  trouble  that 
never  came.  She  knew  the  girl  was  going 
to  leave.  She  was  simply  too  great  a  treas- 
ure to  keep.  She  was  absolutely  certain 
that  the  milkman  was  watering  his  milk,  and 
the  baby  would  get  sick.  She  had  no  doubt 


169 

whatever  but  what  her  husband  was  going 
to  ruin  himself  on  'Change,  and  then  what 
would  become  of  them  all?  So  she  worried 
and  fretted  and  fumed,  until  patience,  like 
a  hunted  bird,  spread  its  wings  and  flew 
away,  and  what  might  have  been  a  happy 
home  became  a  stranded  wreck  upon  the 
rocks  of  contention. 

Oh,  I  tell  you  right  now,  girls,  if  you  can 
only  cultivate  one  accomplishment  out  of 
the  many  that  wait  to  crown  a  perfect 
womanhood,  cultivate  a  pleasant  temper  and 
cheerful  disposition.  The  ability  to  speak 
many  languages,  to  paint,  to  dance,  to  sing, 
or  even  to  wield  a  graceful  pen  is  nothing 
compared  to  the  ability  to  make  a  lovely 
home.  Nobody  ever  yet  succeeded  in  that 
noblest  endeavor  without  abjuring  needless 
faultfinding,  croaking  and  fretting. 


As  a  general  thing  I  don't  believe  in  ser- 
mons served  as  restaurants  serve  beef — in 
slices.  I  believe  in  teaching  truths,  rather, 
as  one  whips  cream,  dropping  in  the  moral 
as  an  almost  imperceptible  flavoring.  But  I 
tell  you  there  are  times  when  I  feel  like 


170 

mounting  a  pulpit  and  thundering  with  old 
Calvin,  until  the  air  emits  sulphur.  Espe- 
cially when  I  see  the  inhumanities  and  out- 
rages practiced  upon  children  by  witless 
parents,  do  I  feel  stirred  to  my  soul's  depths. 
If  we  treated  our  flower  beds  as  we  do  our 
children  there  wouldn't  be  a  blossom  left  in 
the  world.  If  we  served  our  meals  as  we  do 
our  children,  there  would  be  rampant  indi- 
gestion and  black-browed  death  at  the  heels 
of  every  one  of  us.  Now  and  then  you  see 
a  wise  mother  and  sensible  father,  but  the 
biggest  half  of  humanity  receive  their  chil- 
dren as  youngsters  receive  their  Christmas 
toys,  to  be  played  with  when  in  a  good 
humor,  and  bundled  anywhere  out  of  sight 
when  out  of  sorts  or  engrossed  with  more 
important  matters.  We  forget,  half  of  us, 
that  a  little  child's  sense  of  injustice  and  sor- 
row and  wrong  is  compatible  with  its  own 
growth  and  experience  rather  than  with  our 
own.  What  to  us  is  a  paltry  trial  is  the 
cause  of  keenest,  unalleviated  woe  to  the 
child  of  five.  The  possession  of  uncounted 
gold  at  forty  will  not  be  more  precious  than 
the  possession  at  three  of  the  apple  or  the 
book  we  so  rudely  snatch  from  the  little 
hands  without  a  word  of  apology.  Take 


171 


the  time  to  explain  to  the  little  fellow  why 
you  deprive  him  of  some  cherished  pos- 
session and  you  will  save  the  tender  bit  of  a 
heart  a  vast  amount  of  unnecessary  aching. 


I  have  many  things  to  be  thankful  for  this 
stormy  winter  night.  One  is  that  the  coal 
bin  is  full  and  the  lock  on  the  outer  door 
secure.  Another  is  that  the  rooftree  bends 
above  an  unbroken  band,  and  that  disease 
with  its  fell  touch  lingers  the  other  side  of 
the  threshold  of  the  little  home.  Another 
is  that,  as  a  family,  we  all  have  straight  backs 
and  moderately  developed  intellects;  that 
we  are  neither  dime  museum  freaks,  luna- 
tics, nor  half-wits.  Another  is  that  none  of 
us  chew  gum,  carry  around  dogs,  nor  make 
expectoration  the  chief  business  of  a  day's 
outing.  Another  is  that  I  am  getting  so 
used  to  the  alarm  clock  that  I  sleep  through 
its  wild  clamor  and  escape  the  duties  that 
fall  to  the  lot  of  that  other  member  of  the 
home  circle  whose  ear  and  conscience  are 
not  so  sadly  seared  as  mine.  Another  is 
that  I  know  enough  to  detect  butter  from 
oleomargarine,  and  am  not  roped  in  by 


,172 

Blank  street  vendors  with  their  dollar  and 
a  half  tubs.     Another  is  that  I  am  not  the 
sort  of  fellow  to  be  always  hitting  another 
fellow  when  he  has  been  down  and  is  try- 
ing to  stand  steady  again.     Another  is  that 
I  am  modest  enough  to  question  whether  I 
could  run  a  grip  any  better  than  he  does? 
Another  is  that  I  got  one  answer  to  the 
"ad."  wherewith  I  sought  to  capture  a  gold 
watch.     It  would  have  been  an  embarrass- 
ing thing  to  have  received  not  one  solitary 
little  nibble.     Another  is  that  the  elevator 
boy  who  occasionally  carries  me  to  the  top 
floor  and  intermediate  stations  around  at 
Blank's  is  kind  and  does  not  treat  me  with 
the  haughty  scorn  he  bestows  on  others. 
Another  is  that  I  have  the  serene  equipoise 
of  nerve  which  renders  me  calm  and  even 
cheerful  under  the  knowledge  that  there  is 
nothing  in  the  house  to  eat,  and  two  invited 
guests  gently  sleeping  the  happy  hours  away 
in  the  chamber  above,  dreaming  perchance  of 
toothsome  viands  not  to  be.  Another  is  that 
in  spite  of  weather  I  take  no  colds,  and  am 
as  impervious  to  catarrhal  or  pneumonic  af- 
fections as  an  eagle  is  impervious  to  the  at- 
tack of  tom-tits.     Another  is  that  I  live  in  a 
town  where  people  sell  no  beer;  they  may 


173 

steal  and  backbite,  and  raise  the  old  lad  gen- 
erally, but  thank  goodness  the  baleful  glit- 
ter of  a  glass  beer  bottle  has  never  yet 
eclipsed  the  moral  splendor  of  the  scene. 
Another  is  that  I  have  been  enabled  to  pre- 
serve a  few  staunch  and  trusty  friends 
through  the  evolution  of  that  rainy-weather 
costume  which  a  few  of  my  sex  have  joined 
me  in  essaying.  I  cannot  speak  for  future 
tests,  but  so  far  my  henchmen  have  stood 
firm.  And  right  here  let  ime  say  that  any 
friend,  man,  woman  or  babe,  who  can  re- 
main loyal  to  you  after  you  have  been  seen 
in  public  in  a  dress-reform  garment  is  worth 
cultivating,  and  should  be  made  the  theme 
of  special  psalms  of  praise.  Another  is  that 
the  picture  I  had  taken  the  other  day  looks 
worse  than  I  do,  and  when  I  send  it  off  to 
unsuspecting  admirers  I  am  not  torn  with 
the  thought  that  when  they  see  the  original 
they  will  drop  scalding  hot  tears  of  disap- 
pointment. This  idea  of  raising  false  hopes 
in  the  minds  of  confiding  strangers  savors 
too  much  of  Ananias  and  Sapphira.  Anoth- 
er is  that  so  far  in  life  I  have  preserved  a 
stern  and  unshaken  resolution  not  to  wear 
a  false  front  A  woman  in  a  store  bang  is 
next  worse  to  a  chromo  in  an  art  gallery, 


174 

or  a  muslin  rose  among  American  beauties 
fresh  from  the  rose  gardens.  Artificiality, 
my  dear,  pretense  and  assumption,  are  hard- 
er to  put  up  with  than  anything  else  in  the 
world,  unless  it  is  corns.  But  far  ahead  of 
all  the  above  enumerated  causes  for  grati- 
tude is  one  which  thrills  me  most  profound- 
ly, and  which  can  be  summed  up  in  half  a 
dozen  words,  the  echo  of  which,  perhaps, 
will  find  a  lodgment  in  some  other  hearts. 
I  am  thankful,  very,  very  thankful,  that  I 
am  not  the  mother,  nor  the  aunt,  nor  the 
half-sister,  nor  the  first  cousin,  nor  even  the 
next-door  neighbor,  of  the  boy  who  kills 
sparrows  for  two  cents  bounty  on  the  little 
heads.  If  I  had  such  a  boy  within  range  of 
my  voice  to-night  I  should  say  to  him,  "Be 
poor,  my  man;  be  unsuccessful  in  business, 
and  not  up  to  bargains  all  your  life,  but  don't 
be  shrewd  and  sordid  and  cruel  in  seeking 
your  gains.  Better  go  by  the  name  of  'mol- 
lycoddle' and  'baby'  among  the  other  boys 
than  get  to  be  a  little  ruffian  with  your  arrow 
and  your  sling-shot,  and  the  name  of  a  keen- 
killer  tacked  on  to  yourself.  Let  the  spar- 
rows alone,  or  if  you  really  feel  that  they  are 
the  nuisance  they  are  made  out  to  be,  kill 
them  if  you  like,  but  do  it  in  a  gentlemanly 


175 


way  (if  such  a  paradox  is  possible),  and 
don't  take  money  for  the  job."  The  boy 
or  the  man  who  will  take  a  life  for  sordid 
ends,  or,  in  other  words,  who  will  seek  to 
enrich  himself  on  "blood  money,"  is  pretty 
low  down  in  the  human  scale. 


Laughter  is  a  positive  sweetness  of  life, 
but,  like  good  coffee,  it  should  be  well 
cleared  of  deleterious  substance  before  use. 
Ill-will  and  malice  and  the  desire  to  wound 
are  worse  than  chicory.  Between  a  laugh 
and  a  giggle  there  is  the  width  of  the  hori- 
zons. I  could  sit  all  day  and  listen  to  the 
hearty  and  heartsome  ha!  ha!  of  a  lot  of 
bright  and  jolly  people,  but  would  rather 
be  shot  by  a  Winchester  rifle  at  short  range 
than  be  forced  to  stay  within  earshot  of  a 
couple  of  silly  gossips.  Cultivate  that  part 
of  your  nature  that  is  quick  to  see  the  mirth- 
ful side  of  things,  so  shall  you  be  enabled 
to  shed  many  of  life's  troubles,  as  the  plum- 
age of  the  bird  sheds  rain.  But  discourage 
all  tendencies  to  seek  your  amusement  at 
the  expense  of  another's  feelings  or  in  aught 
that  is  impure.  It  was  Goethe  who  said: 


176         c&enia'cvt  anfr 


"Tell  me  what  a  man  laughs  at  and  I  will 
read  you  his  character." 


I'll  take  my  chances  any  day  to  find 
heaven  on  earth,  if  I  can  have  the  run  of 
the  woods  up  along  our  northern  lake  shore 
in  early  springtime.  I  want  no  companions 
either,  unless,  perhaps,  it  be  a  child  or  a 
dog,  for  artificial  women  and  dudish  men, 
let  loose  in  the  woods,  are  harder  to  endure 
than  gad-flies.  It  was  scarcely  more  than 
sunrise,  the  other  morning,  when  I  left  the 
house  and  took  my  way  toward  the  forest 
shrine  undesecrated  as  yet  by  surveyors  or 
wood-choppers,  the  advent  of  either  of 
whom  in  a  country  town  means  good-bye 
to  heaven  on  that  particular  spot  of  earth! 
We  found  the  air  so  full  of  sweetness,  the  in- 
stant we  struck  the  depths  of  the  woods,  that 
one  could  almost  fancy  the  wise  men  of  the 
East  had  been  there  before  us  to  greet  the 
new-born  Spring  with  spices  as  they  greeted 
another  Heaven-born  child  a  score  of  cen- 
turies ago  in  Bethlehem.  Every  shrub  held 
a  softly-tinted  leafbud  half  unfolded,  like  a 
listless  hand.  The  maple  leaves  were  pink 


179 

tue  possible  for  human  nature  to  attain  to, 
but  did  anybody  ever  yet  grow  unselfish 
through  a  life  of  indolent  self-indulgence 
and  ease?  Did  fruit  ever  amount  to  any- 
thing that  was  left  unacquainted  with  the 
sharp  discipline  of  the  gardener's  shears? 
I  tell  you,  all  the  way  up  from  an  apple  to 
a  man  it  takes  lots  of  pruning  and  lopping 
off  of  superfluous  branches  to  bring  out  the 
flavors  and  sweeten  the  fiber  of  the  fruit. 


I  can  imagine  a  lot  of  way-worn  pilgrims 
drawing  up  to  heaven's  gate. 

"What  will  you  have?"  asks  old  St.  Peter, 
standing  idle  and  calm  in  the  perpetual  sun- 
shine that  lies  beyond  the  swinging  portal. 

"I  will  have  my  crown,"  says  one.  "I 
have  earned  it." 

"And  I  will  have  my  harp,"  says  another ; 
"my  fingers  are  eager  to  pick  out  the  heav- 
enly tunes." 

"And  I  will  hie  me  at  once  to  my  heavenly 
mansion,"  says  a  third.  "Long  time  I  have 
plodded,  foot-sore  and  weary,  to  gain  the 
habitation  of  its  enduring  rest." 

But  if  you  can  imagine  "Amber"  piping 
forth  her  small  request,  I  think  you  might 


180 

hear  her  say:  "Conduct  me,  oh,  aged  friend, 
to  the  nearest  sand-bank,  where  I  may  lie 
face  downward  in  the  sunshine  for  fifty  years 
to  come,  and  hear  the  surf  break  on  'Scon- 
sett's  reef."  That  is  what  I  have  been  doing 
for  the  past  fortnight,  and  both  soul  and 
body  have  waxed  strong  in  the  process. 

What  a  tired  passenger  we  carry  around 
with  us,  sometimes,  in  this  marvelous  Pull- 
man coach  of  ours,  wherein  the  soul  takes 
passage  for  its  overland  trip  from  the  cradle 
to  the  grave.  How  restless  it  gets,  and  how 
troublesome.  How  it  turns  from  compan- 
ionship, even  that  of  books,  and  finds  no 
panacea  for  its  torment,  until  some  kind  fate 
side-tracks  it  and  lets  the  noisy  world  rum- 
ble on  with  the  clatter  and  clash  of  conflict- 
ing cares  beating  the  hours  to  dust  beneath 
their  flying  wheels. 

When  I  went  away  for  my  yearly  outing 
I  was  so  cross  that  there  was  no  living  with- 
in six  miles  of  my  own  shadow.  I  hated 
everything  on  earth,  and  everything  on  earth 
hated  me.  But  I  have  come  back  as  sweet- 
ly as  the  breath  of  a  rose  steals  through  a 
lattice.  That  is  the  effect  of  a  jaunt,  my 
dear;  and  let  me  say  right  now  that  if  you 
are  holding  on  to  your  monev  in  the  hope 


177 


and  glossy,  like  rose  petals  wet  with  rain. 
The  hickory  trees  were  unfolding  great 
creamy  buds  that  looked  like  magnolias. 
The  hawthorns  were  all  afloat  with  silver 
blossoms,  like  loosened  sails.  The  earth 
seemed  singing  to  the  heavens,  "God  is 
here!"  and  from  the  blue  depths  of  quietude, 
where  a  few  clouds  spread  their  soft  wings 
like  brooding  birds,  came  back  the  answer, 
"He  is  here!"  The  lake  claimed  Him,  and 
a  thousand  azure  waves  <murmured  His 
presence  on  the  deep.  Wherever  we  looked, 
at  our  feet  where  the  June  lilies  whitened  the 
ground  like  perfumed  snow,  and  the  moss 
was  bubbling  like  a  wayside  spring  with 
sunshine  in  place  of  water;  at  the  misty  fo- 
liage overhead,  like  shadowy  spirit  wings; 
at  the  circle  of  blue  that  bounded  the  earth, 
or  into  the  very  heart  of  heaven  above  us, 
it  seemed  as  though  God,  visible  and  mani- 
fest, was  there  to  give  us  greeting.  Finally, 
we  found  a  point  of  high  land,  touched  here 
and  there  with  shadows  flung  down  from 
budding  birches,  and  starred  with  dande- 
lions in  flocks,  like  golden  butterflies.  Here, 
leaving  the  material  part  of  me  leaning  up 
against  a  tree-trunk  to  rest,  as  one  thrusts 

a  cumbersome  garment  on  a  nail,  my  soul 
12 


178 

went  wandering  off  into  Paradise,  and  for- 
got awhile  its  environment  and  its  earth- 
born  responsibilities.  Next  time  the  world 
has  failed  to  use  you  well  and  you  are  smart- 
ing from  the  sense  of  injury  undeserved,  or 
the  frets  of  domestic  life  have  worn  you 
down  to  the  minimum,  like  a  blade  that  is 
eternally  upon  the  grindstone,  start  for  the 
woods.  Take  a  big  basket  with  you  and  fill 
it  full  of  lilies,  and,  ten  to  one,  before  you 
get  home  again  the  lilies  will  have  taken 
root  in  your  heart  and  your  basket  will  be 
full  of  contentment. 


Educate  the  children  to  the  expectation 
of  'sorrow,  not  as  a  monster  who  is  to  devour 
them,  but  as  an  angel  who  is  to  meet  them 
on  the  way  and  lead  them  gently  home  to 
heaven.  Teach  them  to  hold  themselves  in 
readiness  for  whatever  Ijfe  has  in  store,  as 
soldiers  are  trained  for  a  battle  whose  end 
is  certain  peace.  Teach  them  to  endure  all 
things,  only  striving  to  sweeten  and  soften 
rather  than  to  harden  under  the  discipline 
of  sorrow.  Unselfishness  is  the  most  rare 
and  at  the  same  time  the  most  Christian  vir- 


imfc 

decency.  I  want  to  forget  forever  the 
clang  of  the  cable  car  and  the  rumble  of  its 
wheels.  I  want  to  return  to  the  heathendom 
that  worships  gods  instead  of  dollars  and 
loves  mankind  simply  because  it  knows 
nothing  of  faithlessness  and  fraud. 


"Plaze,  sor,"  said  a  servant  to  the  head 
of  a  certain  suburban  household  the  other 
morning,  "the  gintleman  who  sthole  the 
chickens  left  his  hat  in  the  hincoop."  Just 
so,  Bridget.  And  the  lady  who  attends  to  the 
affairs  of  the  kitchen  has  her  foot  upon  the 
neck  of  the  miserable  woman  who  is  nom- 
inally at  the  head  of  the  house.  Oh,  no !  I 
am  not  going  to  enter  into  a  disquisition 
upon  the  merits  of  the  servant  question. 
Years  ago,  when  I  cantered  lightly  in  my 
ride  against  windmills,  I  might  have  under- 
taken it,  but  the  question  has  grown  too 
large  to  be  settled  by  talking.  The  state  of 
things  in  this  free  country  is  growing  just  a 
trifle  too  free.  There  are  no  longer  any  ser- 
vants in  this  proud  land.  It  is  not  ladylike 
to  serve.  The  person  who  superintends  the 
domestic  affairs  of  our  home  merely  conde- 


184 


scends  for  a  consideration.  We  no  longer 
have  any  rights  as  employers.  The  wind 
has  tacked  to  another  quarter.  Should  we 
wish  to  discharge  our  lady  cook  or  dispense 
with  the  services  of  a  gentleman  artisan  it 
stands  in  place  for  us  to  approach  them  in 
a  respectful  'manner,  put  the  case  before 
them  clearly  and  ask  them  humbly,  without 
offense  to  their  delicate  sensibilities,  if  they 
will  kindly  allow  us  to  forego  their  so-called 
services.  Question  yourself  seriously,  my 
dear;  are  you  sufficiently  considerate? 
Think  how  these  defenseless  ladies  and 
thin-skinned  gentlemen  who  fill  positions  of 
trust  in  your  establishment  must  suffer 
sometimes  from  your  boorish  impetuosity. 
Are  you  always  cordial  in  your  greeting 
when  the  worn  face  of  the  cook  appears  at 
the  delayed  breakfast  hour  and  she  places 
before  you  the  hurried  pancake  and  the  un- 
derdone steak?  Do  you  stop  to  think  how 
the  poor  creature  has  danced  all  night  at 
a  ball  and  has  crept  home  after  your  stiff- 
necked  and  rebellious  husband  has  bounded 
away  to  catch  the  early  train,  breakfastless 
and  profane?  And  when  the  low-voiced  and 
timid  second  girl  tells  you  that,  as  a  lady 
who  knows  her  place,  she  really  cannot  de- 


of  getting  rich  sometime,  or  if  you  are 
traveling  in  a  rut  because  you  think  you  are 
too  poor  to  avoid  it,  or  if  you  are  grinding 
your  soul  into  fine  dust  in  the  process  of  lay- 
ing up  against  a  rainy  day,  just  stop  right 
where  you  are  and  listen  to  me.  Any  money 
that  is  gained  at  the  expense  of  health,  either 
physical  or  mental ;  any  duty  held  to  in  the 
face  of  nervous  breakdown;  any  gain  se- 
cured at  the  expense  of  peace  of  mind  and 
growth  of  soul,  is  not  worth  the  holding. 
You  cannot  be  of  any  use  in  the  world  if  you 
are  worn  out  or  sick.  You  may  persist  in 
holding  on,  but  your  grip  is  weak,  and  your 
effect  on  affairs  and  people  is  simply  that  of 
an  irritant.  You  owe  it  to  yourself,  as  well 
as  to  others,  to  go  away  and  get  rested.  If 
it  costs  money  to  do  so,  consider  money  well 
spent  that  gains  so  fair  an  equivalent  as  rest 
and  change,  and  renewed  vigor.  I  tell  you 
there  are  few  better  uses  to  which  you  may 
put  your  dollars  than  in  a  yearly  outing. 
Your  pockets  may  be  lighter  when  you  get 
back,  but  so  will  your  heart  be,  and  the  few 
sacrifices  necessary  in  the  way  of  less  expen- 
sive clothes  and  cigars,  or  less  frequent 
gloves  and  bonnets,  will  be  well  worth  the 
making  for  the  result  gained. 


182 


I  wish  Columbus  had  never  discovered 
us.  I  wish  that  he  had  never  steered  his 
old  bark  westward  and  found  the  "land  of 
the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave."  For 
with  discovery  came  civilization,  and  I  be- 
lieve we  would  have  been  better  off  without 
it.  If  we  only  could  have  been  left  to  our- 
selves and  gone  on  sitting  under  lotus  trees 
unaffected  by  dressmaker  and  tailor  bills,  I 
believe  the  sum  total  of  happiness  would 
have  been  far  greater  in  the  world  than  it  is 
to-day.  I  would  love  to  return  to  my  alle- 
giance to  nature  and  forever  desert  the 
haunts  of  civilization  and  the  marts  of  trade. 
I  want  to  gather  together  a  picked  band  of 
kindred  souls  and  go  out  and  pitch  tent  by 
the  Gunnison  River.  Ever  been  there? 
Imagine  a  stream  of  gold  flowing  through 
hills  colored  like  an  apple  orchard  in  May, 
with  a  sky  bending  down  above  them  like 
the  wing  of  an  oriole.  I  want  to  forget  the 
insolence  of  a  class  who  may  be  as  good  as 
I  am  in  the  eye  of  the  law,  but  whom  it 
would  take  a  ton  of  soap  and  God's  grace  to 
make  my  equal  in  point  of  cleanliness  and 


187 

then  shall  folly  and  vain  show  fly  over  seas 
for  want  of  encouragement  and  the  grand 
transformation  of  sawdust  dolls  into  women 
and  pleasure-seekers  into  home-keepers  take 
place. 


TWO  DAYS. 

I  said  to  myself  one  golden  day 

When  the  world  was  bright  and  the  world  was 

gay, 

"Though  I  live  more  lives  than  time  has  years 
Either  in  this  or  the  infinite  spheres, 

I  will  fear  no  blight  and  I'll  bear  no  cross, 

Against  my  gains  I  will  write  no  loss, 
But  I  and  my  soul,  twin  lilies  together, 
Shall  whiten  in  endless  summer  weather!" 

I  said  to  myself  one  weary  day 
When  the  world  was  old  and  the  world  was  gray, 
"Has  God  forgotten  His  wandering  earth? 
Are  its  tears  His  scorning,   its  groans  Hie 

mirth? 

There's  no  blue  above  where  the  torn  clouds  fly, 
There's  no  bloom  below  where  the  dead  leaves 

lie; 

Would  I  and  my  soul  were  at  rest  together 
Wrapped    from    the    chill    of    this    wintry 
weather." 


188 

There  are  some  people  who  live  in  this 
world  as  a  cucumber  grows  in  a  garden. 
They  cling  to  their  own  vine  and  serve  no 
higher  end  than  rotundity  and  relish.  There 
are  others  who  live  in  the  world  as  a  sum- 
mer breeze  lives  in  a  meadow ;  they  find  out 
all  the  hidden  flowers  and  set  the  perfumes 
flying.  There  are  others  who  live  as  the  sea 
lives  in  a  shell;  their  existence  is  nothing 
but  a  sigh.  There  are  others  who  live  as 
the  fire  lives  in  a  diamond;  they  are  all 
sparkle.  And  there  are  others,  and  they  out- 
number all  the  rest,  who  live  as  a  blind  mole 
lives  in  the  soil;  they  see  nothing,  feel  noth- 
ing, suffer  and  enjoy  a  little  now  and  then, 
perhaps,  but  know  nothing  to  all  eternity. 
Such  people  walk  through  life  as  the  mole 
walks  through  the  glory  of  a  summer  day, 
or  burrows  beneath  the  dazzle  of  a  winter 
storm.  They  are  as  irresponsive  to  the 
voices  all  about  them  as  the  mole  is  to  the 
singing  of  April  robins.  They  are  as  un- 
touched by  the  myriad  influences  of  life  as 
the  mole  is  by  the  light  of  a  star  or  the 
flash  of  a  comet.  Their  only  interest  is  in 
the  question,  "Wherewith  shall  we  be 
clothed,  and  what  shall  we  have  to  eat?" 
They  gather  the  ripened  hours  from  the  tree 


cw&     w**     185 


mean  herself  to  wipe  off  the  paint  or  sweep 
the  front  steps,  do  you  take  her  by  the  hand 
and  acknowledge  the  indiscretion  of  your 
coarser  nature  in  expecting  her  to  do  such 
menial  service?  How  many  of  us,  clods 
that  we  are,  have  raged  when  the  mild-man- 
nered laundry  'maid  has  appropriated  our 
underclothing,  or  remonstrated  when  the 
number  seven  foot  of  the  blue-blooded  cook 
has  condescended  to  stretch  our  silken  hose? 
It  behooves  us  to  join  the  ranks  of  the  "phi- 
lanthropic fiends"  and  look  to  it  that  we  im- 
prove our  methods  of  treating  the  delicate 
gentry  who  tarry  with  us  so  briefly. 


By  the  way,  I  think  I  occasionally  hear  a 
feeble  pipe  from  a  man  to  the  effect  that  the 
girls  are  responsible  for  all  the  tomfoolery 
in  the  world.  Don't  you  know  that  you  are 
the  very  ones  who  tend  to  make  them  so — 
you  men?  You  follow  after  and  woo  and 
wed  just  that  sort  of  girls.  You  won't  look 
at  a  sensible  little  woman  who  can  make 
"lovely"  bread,  abjures  bangs,  can't  dance 
and  has  no  "style."  You  laugh  at  and  make 
sly  jokes  at  the  expense  of  our  big  hats  and 


186 


our  pronounced  fashions,  but  when  you 
choose  your  company,  and  often  your  wives, 
I  notice  you  pass  right  by  the  home-keeping 
birds  and  take  the  peacocks.  Of  course, 
no  one  lives  in  this  age  who  doubts  for  a 
moment  that  woman's  chief  aim  in  life  and 
purpose  of  creation,  as  well  as  her  hope  of 
a  blessed  hereafter,  is  to  please  the  men  and 
get  a  husband.  If  you  won't  have  her  mod- 
est and  simply  gowned  she  is  willing  to 
make  a  feather-headed  doll  and  a  travesty 
of  herself  to  get  you  and  win  heaven  !  You 
know  perfectly  well,  you  men,  that  you  don't 
care  half  so  much  for  brains  as  you  do  for 
general  "get-up,"  and  the  woman  you  honor 
with  your  choice  is  selected  for  a  pretty  face 
and  form,  and  a  becoming  costume  rather 
than  for  a  clever  head  and  an  honest  heart. 
I  am  not  talking  to  old  fogies  who  cling  to 
old-fashioned  notions,  but  to  young  men 
who  ridicule  the  customs  of  their  grand- 
mothers, who  shake  their  heads  at  salaries 
of  two  and  three  thousand  a  year  as  inade- 
quate to  support  wives;  who  rail  against 
woman's  extravagance,  yet  do  their  best  to 
maintain  her  in  it.  When  you,  my  fine  and 
dapper  gentleman,  begin  to  seek  out  the 
modestly  appareled  and  the  -sedate  girls, 


191 

that,  like  honesty,  politeness  is  ever  the  best 
policy.  And,  on  the  other  hand,  a  woman 
shopper  will  be  whimsical  and  captious  and 
trying,  forgetting  that  the  girl  who  serves 
her  has  human  blood  in  her  veins,  and  often 
carries  a  troubled  heart  behind  her  smile  or 
her  frown. 


They  have  come!  Without  the  sound  of 
a  bugle,  the  bright  hosts  have  marched  down 
and  taken  possession  of  the  land.  The 
southern  slopes  are  all  alive  with  their  wind- 
shaken  tents,  and  when  the  sun  comes  out 
warm  and  glowing  from  the  cloudy  pavil- 
ions of  the  April  sky,  he  finds  a  million  blos- 
soms on  the  hills  that  yesterday  were  white 
with  snow.  Some  of  them  are  tinted  like 
the  flush  that  lingers  in  the  evening  sky 
before  the  stars  find  it;  some  of  them  are 
stainless  as  unfallen  snow;  some  of  them 
are  purple  as  a  nautillus  sail  adrift  upon  a 
twilight  sea;  and  all  of  them  are  joyfully 
welcome  to  hearts  that  are  weary  of  Win- 
ter's long  reign.  And  after  the  hypatica 
shall  come  the  violet,  and  after  the  violet  the 
trillium,  and  after  the  trillium  the  wild-rose, 


192 


and  after  the  wild-rose  the  cardinal-flower 
and  the  wood-lily,  and  after  them  the  gentian 
and  the  golden  rod,  to  mark  the  wane  of  the 
year.  Oh,  who  would  not  live  in  a  world 
whose  dial-plate  is  made  of  flowers  and 
whose  circling  seasons  are  told  over  with 
blossoming  trees  and  gentian-buds? 


I  saw  a  great  many  things  on  the  way 
this  morning  as  I  was  coming  to  town.  Sup- 
pose, as  the  weather  is  too  warm  for  preach- 
ing, I  enumerate  them  and  let  you  strike  the 
balance  at  the  close,  to  see  which  way  the 
world  is  jogging.  I  saw  a  father,  drunk,  be- 
side his  little  blue-eyed  daughter.  His  head 
was  laid  in  maudlin  sleep  upon  her  shoulder, 
and  with  blushes  that  came  and  went  across 
her  face  like  cloud  shadows  on  the  slope  of  a 
hill,  she  sat  and  bore  the  burden  of  her  child- 
ish shame  like  a  little  angel.  I  saw  a  hard- 
faced,  labor-grimed  man  step  out  of  his  way 
to  pick  a  wild  rose  that  grew  by  the  side 
of  the  road.  I  saw  a  young  man  lash  his 
horse  because  his  own  bungling  driving 
came  near  colliding1  his  vehicle  with  a  cable 
car,  I  saw  a  policeman  spring  to  the  rescue 


189 

of  life  as  a  child  gathers  fruit,  merely  for  the 
gratification  of  an  instant  appetite,  not  as 
the  careful  housewife  does,  who  garners 
in  a  store  for  wintry  weather.  Life  to  them 
is  merely  a  fattening  process.  They  remind 
one  of  prize  beef  at  a  county  fair;  to-mor- 
row brings  the  shambles  and  the  butcher's 
axe,  but  in  the  serene  content  of  a  well-filled 
stall  and  a  full  stomach,  they  take  no  thought 
of  the  future.  We  meet  such  people  every 
day  and  everywhere.  On  the  streets  they 
may  see  a  brute  tyrannizing  over  a  helpless 
beast  of  burden,  or  a  mother  (?)  yanking  a 
sobbing  child  along  by  the  arm,  as  full  of 
ugliness  herself  as  a  thunder-cloud  is  of  elec- 
tricity, or  a  man  following  an  innocent 
young  girl  with  the  devil  in  his  heart,  or  a 
big  boy  tyrannizing  over  a  smaller  one ;  and 
they  pass  it  all  by  as  indifferently  as  the  mole 
would  sneak  across  a  battlefield  the  morning 
after  a  battle.  They  have  too  much  to  do 
themselves  to  waste  time  in  remedying  other 
people's  grievances.  They  think  too  much 
of  personal  reputation  to  involve  themselves 
in  an  altercation  with  defilers  of  the  inno- 
cent, and  tramplers  of  the  weak.  They  are 
too  respectable  to  get  mixed  up  in  brawls, 
even  if  the  disturbance  is  brought  about  by 


190 


the  devil's  own  drummers  looking  up  re- 
cruits among  the  chanipionless  and  defense- 
less working-girls,  or  the  parentless  and 
homeless  children  of  a  great  city.  We  meet 
them  traveling  through  the  mountains  or 
loitering  by  the  sea.  Their  only  use  for 
mountains  is  that  they  may  carve  their 
precious  initials  on  the  highest  peaks,  pick 
winter-greens  and  blue-berries  and  display 
their  fashionable  suits  and  striped  stock- 
ings. They  look  upon  the  sea  as  a  big 
bathing-tank,  and  the  sky,  with  all  its  splen- 
dor of  cloud  and  its  glory  of  sunrise  and 
sunset,  as  a  barometer  to  forecast  the  weath- 
er. We  meet  them  in  business  relations, 
and  they  never  believe  that  courtesy  and 
business  can  go  together.  A  merchant  in 
his  office  or  a  lady  in  her  parlor  will  bluntly 
refuse  to  buy  of  a  worn-out,  discouraged, 
heart-sick  book-agent,  ignoring  the  fact  that 
a  smile  accompanying  even  a  refusal  acts 
like  a  spoonful  of  sugar  in  bitter  tea,  and 
costs  less.  Even  a  "lady"  clerk,  behind  a 
counter,  will  be  haughty  and  unaccommo- 
dating and  insolent  to  the  woman  who 
comes  to  buy,  forgetful  that  a  customer  will 
go  a  long  distance  out  of  her  way  to  deal 
with  a  polite  and  \vcll-mannered  clerk,  and 


tmfc     u*.     193 


of  an  old  beggar  woman  who  stumbled  on 
a  street  crossing,  and  saw  him  fall  and  tram- 
pled upon  in  the  discharge  of  duty.  I 
saw  a  pretty  girl  reach  out  her  white  fingers 
and  feed  a  discouraged  street-car  horse  the 
banana  she  was  eating  as  she  passed  by.  I 
saw  a  beaten  dog  turn  and  fawn  beneath  his 
master's  brutal  kick,  and  I  thought  to  my- 
self, where  is  a  more  faithful  friendship  than 
that?  I  saw  a  little  golden-headed  boy  at 
the  window  of  a  house  as  I  rode  by,  and  when 
I  waved  my  hand  he  kissed  his  in  return.  I 
saw  a  tired  mother  stoop  to  hug  the  child 
who  fidgeted  at  her  knee  in  the  tedious  depot 
waiting-room,  and  I  saw  another  slap  her 
baby  because  its  sticky  fingers  sought  to  fon- 
dle her  cheek.  I  saw  a  little  girl  get  up, 
without  suggestion  from  her  mother,  and 
yield  her  seat  to  an  older  person.  I  saw  a 
lamed  and  dying  bird  just  brought  down  by 
a  boy's  sling-shot.  (I  saw  that  same  boy  in 
Sabbath-school  last  Sunday!)  I  saw  one 
woman  in  fifty  thousand  wearing  the  dress- 
reform.  I  saw  eleven  girls  out  of  nineteen 
with  tightly-laced  waists!  I  saw  a  hurt 
kitten  tenderly  attended  to  by  a  soldier  in 
blue,  as  I  passed  Fort  Sheridan  Camp,  and 
involuntarily  I  said  to  myself:  "The  brav- 

13 


194 


est  are  the  tenderest;  the  loving  are  the  dar- 
ing." I  saw  a  small  boy  beating  his  mother 
with  both  fists  because  she  carried  him  over 
the  crowded  and  dangerous  way,  and  so, 
I  thought,  we  treat  the  tender  God  who 
sometimes  lifts  us,  against  our  will,  from 
evil  ways.  I  saw  a  little  coffin  in  an  under- 
taker's window,  and  thought,  what  child  in 
this  busy,  bustling  city  is  doomed  to  fill  that 
casket?  What  love-watched  home  shelters 
the  head  that  shall  one  day  sleep  upon  that 
satin  pillow?  I  saw  a  teacher  in  one  of  our 
public  schools  and  overheard  a  gross  bit  of 
slang  as  she  passed  by.  I  see  myself  send- 
ing a  child  of  mine  to  such  a  teacher  if  I 
knew  it!  I  saw  a  father  wheeling  his  baby 
in  a  perambulator,  with  the  sun  blazing 
straight  into  its  blinking  eyes.  I  saw  one 
man  out  of  every  ten  dodge  into  a  liquor 
saloon  when  he  thought  nobody  was  look- 
ing. I  saw  a  homely  girl  transformed  into 
a  beauty  by  a  service  of  love  accorded  a 
stranger.  I  saw  a  woman  lean  out  of  a 
Marshall  Field  'bus  to  laugh  at  another  who 
wore  shabby  clothes  and  walked  with  a 
drooping  head.  I  saw  lots  of  things  besides, 
but  how  does  the  balance  strike? 


195 


If  we  have  been  living  on  bad  terms  with 
a  neighbor;  if  we  have  been  maintaining  a 
chilling  silence  and  a  forbidding  reserve  with 
anybody  thrown  often  in  our  way,  let  us  have 
done  with  such  nonsense  and  live  in  the 
world  as  God  meant  we  should. 


Out  of  the  exuberance  of  a  merry  heart 
the  housekeeper  has  loosened  the  tacks  in 
the  parlor  carpet,  and  the  epoch  of  house- 
cleaning  begins.  The  head  of  the  family, 
pro  tern,  dweller  in  the  land  of  desolation 
and  sojourner  in  the  valley  of  wrath,  hies 
him  to  town  and  wishes  vainly  for  the  return 
of  the  days  when  he  had  no  wife  save  in 
Spain  and  no  family  outside  of  Elia's  land 
of  dreams.  The  calciminer  comes  and  drops 
leprous  splashes  all  over  the  hallways  and 
the  bannisters.  One  paperhanger  taketh 
unto  himself  another,  and  the  two  scatter 
ringlets  of  snipped  paper  all  over  the  bed 
chambers,  and  cumber  up  the  floors  with 
sticky  paste-pots  and  brushes.  The  scrub 


196       i&&zmav#  cmfc 


woman  breathes  hard  and  devastates  the  ap- 
proaches of  the  front  steps,  while  the  hired 
girl  skips  playfully  here  and  there  with  damp 
cloths  and  bars  of  silvery  soap.  There  is  no 
breakfast,  no  lunch,  no  dinner.  We  take 
what  provender  the  gods  deliver  to  us  in  out 
of  the  way  places,  like  stalled  oxen  or  un- 
complaining army  mules  !  We  sleep  by  night 
in  beds  loosely  put  together  and  smelling  of 
soap.  We  awake  betimes  to  the  rattle  of  the 
scrubbing  brush  and  the  sharp  overthrow  of 
stovepipes.  We  see  the  young  person,  like 
McStinger,  on  the  rampage  from  morn  till 
night.  We  watch  her  hand  to  hand  encoun- 
ters with  the  pictures  that  have  been  wont  to 
hang  upon  the  walls.  How  she  swoops  upon 
them,  bears  them  down,  buffets  them  with 
dusters  and  heaps  them  high  like  stumbling 
blocks  in  the  path  of  the  righteous!  How 
she  sneers  at  our  feeble,  yet  apt,  suggestion, 
and  pharisaically  "thanks  goodness  that  she 
is  good  for  something  besides  standing 
around  and  giving  unsolicited  advice  !"  How 
she  charges  upon  our  cherished  books  and 
whacks  them  together  vindictively  to  loosen 
the  dust  and  the  bindings!  How  she  tosses 
the  piano  like  a  feather  in  her  strength  and 
probes  its  sensitive  heart-strings  with  a  knit- 


197 

ting  needle  in  search  of  dirt  and  pins!  How 
she  rebukes  the  Captain  for  idling  away  her 
time  at  doll-playing  while  there  is  so  much 
work  to  do,  and  drives  that  gallant  young 
field  officer  forth  to  do  battle  with  the  unre- 
sisting tomato  can  in  the  backyard !  What  a 
pandemonium  reigns  over  all  the  domain  of 
yesterday's  content!  Carlo,  the  dog,  whose 
flippant  youth  is  getting  its  first  severe  taste 
of  life's  discipline,  retires  to  an  adjacent 
covert  and  howls  a  fitful  protest.  The  cat 
blinks  sleepily  in  the  sunshine  and  dreams  of 
a  future  unmarred  by  suds  and  a  slippery 
foothold.  When  she  has  occasion  to  walk 
across  the  kitchen  floor  she  shakes  her  hind 
foot  gingerly,  like  a  pilgrim  delicately  re- 
moving the  dust  of  the  enemy's  land  from 
his  members.  The  goblin  brood  of  chickens 
chuckle  with  amazement  while  the  hired 
man  beats  the  rugs  like  a  snare  drum  and 
charges  upon  the  carpet  that  hangs  like  a 
vanquished  foe  across  the  clothesline.  But, 
like  everything  else,  my  dear,  we  take  the 
trials  of  spring  housecleaning  as  the  tourist 
takes  the  storms  in  the  Alps  or  the  sailor 
meets  the  tempest  on  the  sea.  It  has  not 
come  to  stay ;  the  sun-lighted  peaks  of  deliv- 
erance lie  just  ahead  ot  us,  and  there  is  fine 


198 


sailing  for  another  year  when  the  squall  is 
weathered. 


I  am  tired  of  the  endless  dress  parade  of 
the  great  alike — aren't  you?  I  am  tired  of 
walking  in  file,  as  convicts  walk  together  in 
stripes — aren't  you?  I  glory  in  cranks  who 
have  enough  individuality  to  refuse  to  be 
sewed  up  in  the  universal  patchwork,  like 
the  calico  blocks  we  used  to  overcast  with 
our  poor  little  pricked  fingers  ever  so  long 
ago  when  we  were  children — don't  you? 
The  onward  sweep  of  progress  in  this  age 
has  prepared  the  way  for  non-conformists, 
and,  glory  be  to  God !  they  are  swinging  into 
line  like  beacon  lights  up  the  Maine  coast. 
I  confess  I  have  no  heart-pining  for  eman- 
cipation that  shall  place  me  alongside  of 
Dr.  Mary  Walker  or  others  of  her  ilk.  I 
would  like  to  retain  my  womanliness,  but  I 
would  like  also  to  make  a  distinct  mark  upon 
my  times,  be  it  ever  so  small  and  insignifi- 
cant, as  an  individual  and  an  intelligence 
quite  as  distinct  from  the  conventional 
masses  as  a  blackbird  is  when  it  leaves  the 
flock  and  silhouettes  itself  in  solitary  state 


199 


against  the  deep  blue  sky  from  the  top  of  a 
windy  elm  tree  —  wouldn't  you? 


I  want  one  good  square  fling  on  earth  be- 
fore I  die.  I  want  the  chance  to  know  what 
it  is  to  have  enough  money  to  be  able  to  buy 
silk  elastic  occasionally  instead  of  cotton, 
and  to  have  my  teeth  filled  with  gold  instead 
of  concrete  without  feeling  as  though  I  had 
been  robbing  hen-roosts  for  a  month  after. 
I  want  to  go  to  the  theater  in  a  swell  car- 
riage, and  sit  in  the  best  box,  with  a  pale 
pink  ostrich  boa  draped  about  my  shoulders 
and  the  opera-glasses  of  the  entire  house 
leveled  at  me  for  a  stunning  beauty.  I  want 
the  sensation,  for  once,  of  knowing  that  I 
am  as  handsome  as  I  am  bright,  and  as  well- 
dressed  as  I  am  virtuous.  I  want  to  have 
ice  cream  seven  times  a  week  and  "Pommery 
Sec"  by  the  dozen  in  the  cellar.  I  want  to 
own  a  silk  umbrella  with  a  golden  crook, 
and  wear  a  diamond  ring  on  every  finger. 
I  want  to  buy  candy  whenever  I  feel  like  it 
without  having  to  register  it  in  the  family 
account  book  under  the  head  of  "sundries" 
and  "cough  drops."  I  want  to  see  the  time 


200 


when  I  can  call  the  average  shop-girl  out 
into  the  alley  and  have  it  out  with  her  with 
none  to  interfere.  I  want  to  settle  with  her 
for  the  indignities  I  have  long  suffered  with 
the  pusillanimity  of  a  meek  nature.  I  want 
to  ask  her  between  clips  why  she  has  always 
sold  me  just  what  I  didn't  want,  and  sneered 
at  me  because  I  didn't  buy  more  of  it.  I 
want  also  to  engage  in  hand  to  hand  conflict 
with  the  female  gum-chewer.  I  want  to  con- 
vince her  that  I  have  endured  all  I  will  of  her 
facial  contortions,  and  that  the  time  has 
come  for  the  extinction  of  her  type  from  the 
face  of  the  blooming  earth.  I  want  the  pow- 
er to  consign  every  man  who  even  mentions 
"nose  bag"  to  a  horse,  to  the  guillotine,  and 
to  imprison  for  life  every  brute  who  carries 
a  snake-whip  or  uses  a  check-rein.  I  want 
to  solder  the  man  or  woman  who  objects  to 
fresh  air  inside  a  tin  can  and  label  them  "sar- 
dines." I  want  to  shoot  on  sight  the  first 
human  being  who  .mentions  the  word 
"draught"  in  my  hearing,  and  set  my  dog  on 
the  fiend  who  blots  the  face  of  nature  with 
his  ear-muffs.  I  want  to  live  for  a  while  in 
a  country  where  there  are  neither  thunder- 
storms nor  cyclones,  but  where  I  can  sleep 
nights  right  through,  from  March  until  No- 


201 

vember,  without  getting  up  to  look  for  fun- 
nels or  shooing  the  whole  family  down  cellar 
as  a  hen  gathers  her  chickens  from  the 
swooping  hawk.  I  want  to  live  in  a  com- 
munity 'made  up  of  people  who  mind  their 
own  business.  I  want  to  be  able  now  and 
then  to  receive  a  letter  from  out  of  town  (it 
is  generally  a  bill!)  without  having  the  vil- 
lage postmaster  regard  me  as  a  burning 
fagot.  I  want  to  find  a  recipe  for  making 
buckwheat  cakes  that  do  not  taste  like  sand. 
I  want  to  be  able  to  detect  a  hypocrite  and  a 
traitor  on  sight,  without  waiting  for  a  broken 
heart  to  evidence  the  fact  that  I  am  sold 
again.  I  want  to  rise  out  of  the  range  of 
small  annoyances,  and  fly  above  the  aim  of 
inferior  people  to  disturb.  I  want  to  grow 
to  be  more  like  an  eagle  that  wings  its  way 
out  of  the  habitat  of  gadflies,  and  less  like  a 
trembling  hare  pursued  by  hounds.  I  want 
to  take  the  lesson  to  my  heart  that  the  soul 
that  is  constant  to  itself  and  aspires  towards 
heaven  shall  never  be  left  a  prey  to  care  and 
unrest.  I  want  to  strike  a  dress  reform 
which  shall  make  women  look  less  like  guys, 
and  to  encounter  a  rainy  day  in  which  I  shall 
not  bite  the  dust,  I  and  my  umbrella,  and  my 
flippety -floppety  skirts,  and  my  nineteen 


202 


bundles.  I  want  to  cut  down  the  ballot  priv- 
ilege and  make  it  impossible  for  an  immi- 
grant to  vote  before  he  is  a  twenty-one-year 
resident  of  America.  I  want  to  convince  the 
woman  suffragist  that  the  greatest  curse  she 
can  precipitate  upon  her  sex  is  the  ballot.  I 
want  to  teach  my  sisters  that  if  they  will  pay 
more  attention  to  their  homes  and  less  to 
outside  issues  American  institutions  will  be 
more  of  a  success.  If  the  career  of  a  poli- 
tician will  spoil  a  man  what  would  it  do  for  a 
woman?  On  the  principle  that  a  strawberry 
will  decay  sooner  than  a  pumpkin,  or  that 
a  violet  is  more  fragile  than  a  sunflower,  it 
would  take  about  one  election  day  to  change 
a  woman  into  a  harridan.  I  never  knew  but 
one  out  and  out  politician  who  preserved  in- 
tact the  amenities  of  a  gentleman,  and  he 
died  early  of  heart  trouble.  The  thing 
killed  him  physically  before  it  destroyed  him 
morally.  If  any  politician  reads  this  and 
wants  to  challenge  the  point  I  want  to  meet 
him  and  either  convince  him  or  be  slain. 


If  you  are  not  glad  to  be  alive  such  weath- 
er as  this  it  is  because  you  are  a  clod  and  not 


203 


a  sentient  being.  Why,  I  never  open  my 
door  these  radiant  mornings  and  walk  out 
into  a  world  that  is  more  golden  than  any 
topaz  and  more  radiant  than  any  diamond 
that  I  do  not  hug  myself  for  very  joy  that  I 
am  alive!  The  grave  has  not  got  me  yet! 
And,  though  I  be  poor  and  quite  alone  and 
go  hungry  for  the  fleshpots  that  make  my 
neighbors  great  about  the  girth,  I  am  happy 
as  a  queen  and  quite  content  to  cast  my  lot 
with  clovers  and  birds  and  wayside  weeds 
that  feel  the  vigor  of  summer  weather  in 
every  fiber  of  prodigal  life.  To-night  the 
sky  was  like  the  flame  of  King  Solomon's 
opal  —  did  you  see  it?  And  just  as  the  glory 
was  growing  and  deepening  into  an  intensi- 
ty of  beauty  that  made  you  want  to  shut 
your  eyes  and  say  Oh  —  h  —  h!  as  the  little 
boys  do  at  the  circus  when  the  elephants  go 
round,  a  thrush  whipped  out  his  mellow  flute 
and  gave  us  a  vesper  song  that  made  one 
think  of  heaven  and  bands  of  singing  angels! 
And  yet  we  are  discontented  and  feel  our- 
selves misused  because  we  happen  to  be  a 
little  poverty-stricken  now  and  then,  and  it 
is  hard  work  to  find  the  plums  in  our  pud- 
ding! 


204 


The  other  morning,  before  the  town  clock 
struck  7,  I  was  riding  over  country  in  a 
hack,  driven  by  a  courtly  mannered  colored 
boy  and  drawn  by  a  couple  of  discouraged 
mules.  I  was  going  over  to  Hampton  and 
Chesapeake  City  to  see  the  sights.  A  robin 
was  quarreling  with  a  sparrow  for  possession 
of  a  nest  in  a  treetop  hung  with  blossoms 
thick  as  Monday's  washing,  and  a  small 
pickaninny  stood  in  a  doorway  and  held  his 
breath  with  terror  as  our  driver  slashed  the 
air  with  his  long  whip.  The  morning  was 
superb.  The  sea  lay  like  an  opal  with  a 
dark  setting  of  hills  shadowed  like  oxidized 
silver,  the  birds  were  out  like  blossoms  of 
the  upper  air  with  song  in  place  of  perfume, 
and  the  world  seemed  altogether  too  jolly 
and  bright  a  spot  to  link  with  thoughts  of 
sorrow  and  pain  and  death.  We  drove  over 
to  the  soldiers'  home,  where  from  four  to  fivet 
thousand  veteran  warriors  have  found  shel- 
ter from  the  bombarding  storm  of  mundane 
care.  Under  the  shadow  of  great  willows  in 
half-leaf  and  still  golden  with  April  sap,  in 
sunny  corners  of  broad  piazzas,  on  benches 
by  the  slope  of  sluggish  streams,  or  walking 
about  the  well-kept  paths,  these  old  and  bat- 
tle-scarred warriors  pass  the  time  away. 


205 

"What  a  hero  I  might  have  been,"  says  each 
one  to  himself,  "if  only  -  — !"  or,  "What  a 
narrow  miss  I  made  of  glory  when  that  pre- 
mature shell  took  off  my  legs  and  stranded 
me  here !"  Peacefully  they  behold  life's  sun 
decline,  and  peacefully  in  turn  they  take  pos- 
session of  the  narrow  beds  awaiting  them  in 
the  near  cemetery,  where  so  many 
soldiers  are  sleeping  the  unheeded  years 
away.  Without  motive  or  purpose  their  life 
is  scarcely  more  eventless  than  their  death 
shall  finally  be.  Some  way  the  grounds 
where  these  patient  old  graybeards  sit  day 
after  day  with  nothing  to  do  but  muse  upon 
the  past  remind  me  of  the  human  heart  with 
its  pensioned  hopes,  its  stranded  intentions 
and  its  crippled  endeavors !  What  heroisms, 
what  subtle  intents  for  good,  what  preten- 
tious desires  were  frustrated  and  made 
worthless  by  the  destiny  which  changed  life's 
battlefield  into  a  "soldiers'  home"  and  the 
scene  of  action  for  the  shaded  seat  under  the 
willows  of  a  long  regret! 


I  wonder  if  Eve,  looking  over  the  battle- 
ments of  heaven  now  and  then,  and  seeing 


206     $ji&&jentcivi£ 

how  tired  we  get  down  here  and  how  dis- 
couraged and  broken-hearted  we  often  are, 
is  ever  sorry  for  the  heritage  she  left  us,  all 
for  the  sake  of  an  apple !  Does  she  not  curse 
the  memory  of  the  earth  fruit  whose  flavor 
has  so  embittered  humanity !  Think  of  it,  oh 
far-removed  and  perverse  ancestress,  if  it 
were  not  for  you  we  might  have  lived  in  a 
world  where  dinners  walked  into  the  pot  and 
boiled  themselves  over  fires  that  called  for 
no  replenishing;  where  rent  stockings  lifted 
themselves  on  viewless  hands  and  were  deft- 
ly darned  by  sunshine  needles  in  the  air; 
where  last  year's  garments  glided  into  this 
year's  'Styles  without  the  snip  of  scissors  or 
the  whirr  of  sewing  machine  wheels;  where 
brooms  swept  and  dust-cloths  dusted  unas- 
sisted by  human  hands;  where  windows 
cleaned  themselves  as  fogs  lift  from  the  lake, 
and  washing  and  ironing  were  spontaneous, 
like  the  growth  of  flowers.  I  for  one  am 
heartily  tired  of  having  to  suffer  for  Eve's 
heartless  stupidity.  Hard  work  has  too 
much  of  the  blight  of  the  primal  curse  about 
it  to  suit  me,  and  no  matter  what  philosophy 
we  call  to  our  aid  the  fact  remains  that 
labor  of  a  certain  sort  is  the  heritage  of  sin, 
and  sin  was,  is  and  ever  shall  be  accursed. 


ant*     «£*     207 


But  there  is  something  a  great  deal  worse 
than  hard  work,  and  that  is  laziness.  The 
man  who  toils  until  the  great  muscles  of  his 
arm  stand  out  like  cords  and  his  broad  shoul- 
ders are  bent  like  the  branches  of  a  pine 
under  the  force  of  a  strong  wind  from  the 
north  is  a  king  among  his  kind  compared  to 
the  shiftless  do-nothings  of  life,  between 
whose  feet  are  spun  the  cobwebs  of  sloth 
and  within  whose  lily-white  fingers  nothing 
more  burdensome  than  a  cigar  finds  its  way. 
Give  me  a  blacksmith  any  day  rather  than  a 
dude.  Work  is  hard  and  sometimes  thank- 
less, but,  like  tough  venison  served  with  jelly 
sauce,  it  is  spiced  with  self-respect  and 
smacks  of  honest  independence. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  ROSE. 

A  white  rose  grew  in  a  garden  place, 
On  a  slender  stem,  with  a  royal  grace; 
The  nursling  of  June  and  her  gentle  showers, 
Fairest  and  sweetest  of  all  her  flowers. 

The  south  wind  was  out  one  day  for  a  sail, 

In  a  cloudy  boat,  so  fleecy  and  frail, 

And    he   chanced   to    spy,   where   musing   she 

stood, 
My  dear  little  rose  in  her  snowy  hood. 


208 


Oh,  softly  he  whispered  and  tenderly  sighed, 
"Starry  Eyes,  Starry  Eyes,  I  wait  for  my  bride." 
But  she  laughed  in  his  face,  and  told  him  to  go; 
She  didn't  see  why  he  bothered  her  so. 

A  dewdrop  fell  in  the  starry  hush, 
Lured  from  heaven  by  her  dreamy  blush; 
But  the  tender  kiss  of  his  balmy  lip 
She  gave  to  a  bee,  next  morning,  to  sip. 

A  bobolink  left  the  bloom  of  a  tree 

To  tell  her  tale  of  whimsical  glee; 

The  moon  dropped  a  pearl  to  wear  in  her  breast; 

Dawn  wove  her  a  cloak  of  silvery  mist. 

But  her  hard  little  heart  was  colder  than  ice, 
She  sent  every  suitor  away  in  a  trice; 
Till  the  wind  drew  nigh,  with  a  terrible  roar, 
And  said:    "Pretty  Rose,  your  playtime  is  o'er." 

He  shook  her  with  might,  and  he  drenched  her 

with  rain, 
Till  the  poor  little  rose  swooned  away  with  her 

pain; 

And  her  shiny  crown,  with  its  moonbeam  glow, 
He  tossed  far  and  wide,  like  the  feathery  snow. 

And  all  that  is  left  of  that  splendid  bloom, 
The  diadem  gay,  and  the  spicy  perfume, 
Is  a  handful  of  dust,  that  once  was  a  rose  — 
The  sport  of  the  wind,  as  it  fitfully  blows. 


209 

Once  upon  a  time  there  lived  a  woman. 
She  was  not  very  young,  nor  was  she  very 
old.  She  was  neither  handsome,  homely,  a 
genius,  nor  a  fool.  She  was  just  a  common- 
place, good-intentioned,  fair  type  of  the  aver- 
age woman.  This  woman  prided  herself  but 
little  upon  the  various  accomplishments  that 
contribute  to  the  modern  woman's  popular- 
ity. She  could  not  dance  a  step,  save  in  front 
of  a  northeast  gale,  or  in  a  game  of  romps 
with  her  little  folks.  She  could  not  decorate 
a  tea  cup  to  save  her  life,  nor  hand-paint 
a  clam  shell,  nor  embellish  a  canvas  with 
fleshy  cupids  and  no  less  corpulent  rosebuds. 
She  could  sing  a  few  insignificant  ballads, 
such  as  "Annie  Laurie,"  "Twilight  Dews," 
and  "Nearer,  My  God,  to  Thee."  These 
with  a  number  like  them,  she  was  always 
ready  to  furnish  in  a  manner  to  bring  down 
the  house,  but  I  doubt  if  she  would  have 
been  a  success  either  in  a  comic  opera  or  a 
church  choir.  She  could  make  bread  and 
pieplant  pie  after  a  fashion  that  would  make 
a  man  wish  that  he  had  been  born  earlier  to 
enjoy  more  of  them.  She  could  tidy  up  a 
room  quicker  than  a  cat  could  wink  its  eyes, 
and  in  the  matter  of  housecleaning  she 
was  a  regular  four-in-hand  coach  and  a 

14 


210 

tiger.  If  you  had  asked  her  to  lead  a  class 
in  ethical  culture  or  make  a  speech  on  suf- 
frage or  score  a  point  for  reform,  this  woman 
would  have  ignobly  turned  her  back  and  run 
away,  and  yet  perhaps  she  wielded  an  influ- 
ence in  the  world  quite  as  strong  as  many  a 
woman  whose  name  is  recorded  on  the  roll 
call  of  noisy  fame.  But  there  was  one  thing 
this  woman  abhorred  with  all  the  might  and 
strength  of  her  soul,  and  that  was  slang. 
She  had  been  brought  up  to  consider  the  use 
of  anything  more  pronounced  than  the  "yea" 
and  "nay"  of  the  Quaker  vernacular  an  out- 
rage to  refinement,  and  although  drifting  far 
from  her  childhood's  faith  in  many  ways  still 
preserved  an  innate  shrinking  from  the  ex- 
uberance of  vain  speech.  She  allowed  no 
little  boys  to  slide  the  cellar  door  with  her 
own  precious  yellow-heads  who  could  be 
positively  convicted  of  using  naughty  lan- 
guage. Her  husband  left  his  worldly  ways 
in  town  and  only  carried  home  to  this  nice 
little  woman  the  aroma  of  propriety  and 
coriander  seeds.  But  who  ever  yet  was  as- 
sured of  a  firm  foothold  upon  the  pinnacle  of 
self-righteousness  that  the  old  boy  did  not 
whip  out  an  arrow  and  bring  them  low?  It 
becomes  my  painful  duty  to  chronicle  the 


attt*  $*«*     211 

temptation    and    downfall    of   the    upright 
woman. 

It  was  a  tempestuous  day  of  early  autumn. 
It  not  only  rained,  it  poured!  It  not  only 
blew,  but  it  tore,  howled,  twisted,  cavorted! 
The  woman  had  to  go  to  town.  At  the  elev- 
enth hour  the  family  umbrella  was  kid- 
naped by  a  demon.  (When  the  prince  of 
evil  has  nothing  else  to  do  he  sends  out  his 
imps  to  hide  umbrellas,  handkerchiefs,  thim- 
bles, scissors,  and  other  domestic  essentials.) 
The  woman  had  no  time  to  track  the  um- 
brella to  its  lair,  so  she  pinned  a  newspaper 
over  her  bonnet  and  leaped  for  the  train.  Ar- 
rived in  town  she  bought  a  50  cent  umbrella 
from  a  man  who  was  peddling  them  on  the 
street  corner,  and  from  that  moment  we 
date  her  downfall.  The  umbrella  proved  to 
be  fashioned  of  gum  arabic  and  cobweb.  It 
leaked,  it  exuded,  it  faded  away  like  a  frost- 
flake  in  her  hands,  so  that  ere  half  an  hour 
had  passed  she  gave  it  to  a  newsboy,  and 
laughed  to  see  him  kick  it  into  an  alley. 
Then  she  took  off  her  plumed  hat  and 
pinned  it  underneath  her  cloak,  wrapped 
a  lace  scarf  about  her  head  and  proceeded 
on  her  way.  Remarking  the  pleased  ex- 
pression on  the  faces  of  all  she  met,  she 


212 

wondered  at  it,  with  an  Indian  outbreak  so 
imminent.  Small  boys  danced  by  her  in  the 
rain  to  the  sound  of  their  own  bright  laugh- 
ter; strong  men  seemed  overcome  as  she 
drew  near,  and  even  the  stern  policemen 
at  the  street  crossings  turned  aside  to  hide 
a  9x14  smile.  The  woman  lunched  at  a  pop- 
ular restaurant  in  the  midst  of  a  mysterious 
carnival  of  glee,  and  finally  took  the  train 
for  home  and,  leaving  the  city  limits,  skirted 
the  northern  shores  of  the  lake  to  the  sound 
of  muffled  mirth.  Reaching  home  and  look- 
ing into  the  mirror  she  was  confronted  by 
a  countenance  that  bore  all  the  seeming  "of 
a  demon  that  is  dreaming."  The  sea-green 
warp  of  cotton  in  the  gum-arabic  umbrella 
had  melted  and  run  in  long  lines  over  brow 
and  nose  and  chin.  For  one  moment  the 
woman  gazed  at  her  frescoed  charm,  and 
as  to  what  follows  we  will  drop  the  curtain. 
Suffice  it  to  say,  she  fell,  and  the  shocked 
echoes  of  that  little  home  put  cotton  in  their 
ears  and  fainted  into  lonely  space  at  being 
called  upon  to  repeat  the  strong  language 
that  rent  the  air.  Who  shall  blame  the 
woman  if  she  said  "darn"  with  an  emphasis 
that  might  have  made  a  pirate  wan  with 
envy?  Who  shall  cast  the  first  stone  at  her 


until  the  day  dawns  that  releases  my  sex 
from  the  thralldom  of  its  bondage  to  those 
demons  who  walk  abroad  and  plot  her  down- 
fall in  rainy  weather? 


Wear  this  bead  upon  your  heart,  girls; 
have  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  so-called 
"fascinating"  or  "magnetic"  men.  Put  no 
faith  in  mystery  when  it  comes  to  a  question 
of  the  man  you  think  you  love.  Rapt 
glances  and  tender  sighs  that  lead  to  noth- 
ing in  the  way  of  an  honest  declaration  are 
as  despoiling  to  your  womanhood  as  the 
breath  of  a  furnace  is  to  a  flower.  There  is 
no  'mystery  in  genuine  love,  and  there  is  no 
counterfeiting  it,  either.  It  is  open-faced, 
ready-tongued  and  clear-eyed.  It  is  a  vir- 
tue for  heroes,  not  a  platitude  in  the  mouth 
of  fools.  It  is  undefiled  and  set  apart,  like 
the  snow  on  high  hills.  Allow  no  man  to 
make  you  a  party  to  anything  clandestine. 
A  man  who  is  afraid  to  meet  you  at  your 
own  home,  and  appoints  a  tryst  in  the  park, 
or  a  down-town  restaurant,  is  as  much  of 
a  menace  to  your  happiness  as  a  pestilence 
would  be  to  your  health.  Remember,  in  all 


214 


your  experience  with  so-called  love,  that  the 
fewer  adventures  a  young  woman  has,  the 
fewer  flirtations  and  the  fewer  "affairs,"  the 
more  glad  she  will  be,  by  and  by,  when  she 
is  a  good  man's  wife  and  a  brave  boy's  or 
sweet  girl's  mother.  A  gown  oft  handled, 
you  know,  is  seldom  white,  and  each  ro- 
mance you  weave  with  idle  fellows  who  roll 
their  eyes  and  talk  love,  but  never  show  you 
the  respect  to  offer  you  their  hand  in  honest 
marriage  —  these  fascinating  "Rochesters" 
and  wicked  "St.  Elmos,"  already  married,  or 
steeped  to  the  lips  in  evil-doing  —  deprive 
you  of  your  whiteness  and  your  bloom. 


Do  you  ever  get  discouraged  and  feel  like 
saying:  "Oh,  it's  no  use!  I  want  to  amount 
to  something!  I  have  it  in  me  to  do  great 
and  grand  things,  but  the  circumstances  of 
poverty  are  against  me.  I  can  be  nothing 
but  a  drudge  and  the  sooner  I  get  over 
dreaming  of  anything  higher,  the  better!" 
Of  course  you  have  just  such  times  of  think- 
ing and  talking,  but  did  you  ever  comfort 
yourself  with  the  thought  that  though  all 
these  things  you  can  not  be,  you  are,  really, 


anfc    lus*     215 


in  the  sight  of  God?  A  diamond  is  no  less  a 
diamond  because  it  has  been  mislaid,  and 
passed  off  through  ignorance  as  common 
glass.  A  tulip  seed  is  no  less  the  sheath  of  a 
flower  because  through  mistake  somebody 
has  labeled  it  as  common  timothy.  A  silk 
fabric  is  no  less  the  product  of  the  mulberry- 
feeding  worm  because  somebody  has 
wrapped  it  in  a  brown  paper  parcel  and 
valued  it  as  domestic  jeans.  What  you  are, 
you  are,  and  there  is  no  power  on  earth  can 
gainsay  it.  Other  folks  may  ignore  it  in 
you  ;  half  the  world,  nay  all  the  world,  may 
fail  to  see  it,  but  if  nobility,  and  strength, 
and  sweetness  are  there  you  are  worth  just 
that  much  to  God!  Blessed  thought,  isn't 
it,  you  poor,  overworked  clerk,  with  your 
brain  always  in  a  muddle  with  the  dry  de- 
tails of  a  business  you  hate!  Blessed 
thought,  isn't  it,  you  dear,  tired  woman  with 
more  burdens  to  carry  than  a  maple  tree  has 
leaves!  No  matter  how  impossible  it  may 
be  for  you  to  live  out  what  is  in  you,  that 
something  true  and  grand  and  beautiful  is 
deathless  and  shall  have  its  chance  of  de- 
velopment by  and  by. 

I  shall  never  again  meet  the  pretty  maid 
with  the  larkspur  eyes  and  the  corn  silk  hair 


216       u>0£mit*ij  ant* 


who  traveled  with  us  a  part  of  the  way,  but 
wherever  she  goes,  joy  go  with  her!  She 
was  so  modest  and  unspoiled  and  sweet,  I 
declare  the  sight  of  such  a  girl  in  this  day 
of  dancers  and  high-steppers  is  like  the 
sound  of  "Annie  Laurie"  between  the 
carousals  of  a  break-down  jig,  or  the  taste 
of  a  wild  strawberry  after  pepper  tea.  God 
bless  the  old-fashioned  girl  with  her  helpful 
ways,  her  arch  face  and  her  blithe  and  hearty 
laugh.  May  her  type  never  vanish  from  the 
face  of  the  earth,  and  may  the  mold  after 
which  her  soul  was  fashioned  never  get  mis- 
laid and  lost  in  the  heavenly  work-shop. 


I  think  I  shall  be  a  little  sorry  when  the 
commanding  officer  sends  out  the  word  to 
break  camp  and  leave  this  dear  old  earth 
forever.  For  I  love  this  world.  I  never 
walk  out  in  the  morning  when  all  its  radi- 
ant colors  are  newly  washed  with  dew,  or 
at  splendid  noon,  when,  like  an  untired 
racer  the  sun  has  flashed  around  his  mid-day 
course,  or  at  evening,  when  a  fringe  of  shad- 
ow, like  the  lash  of  a  weary  eye,  droops  over 
mountain  and  valley  and  sea,  or  in  the  ma- 


217 


jestic  pomp  of  night  when  stars  swarm  to- 
gether like  bees  and  the  moon  clears  its  way 
through  the  golden  fields  as  a  sickle  through 
the  ripened  wheat,  that  I  do  not  hug  myself 
for  very  joy  that  I.  am  yet  alive.  The  cruel 
grave  has  not  got  me!  Those  jaws  of  dark- 
ness have  not  swallowed  me  up  "from  the 
sweet  light  of  mortal  day  !  What  matter  if  I 
am  poor  and  unsheltered  and  costumeless? 
Thank  God,  I  am  yet  alive  !  People  who  tire 
of  this  world  before  they  are  seventy  and 
pretend  that  they  are  ready  to  leave  it  are 
either  crazy  or  stuck  full  of  bodily  ailments 
as  a  cushion  is  of  pins.  The  happy,  the 
warm-blooded,  the  sunny-natured  and  the 
loving  cling  to  life  as  petals  cling  to  the 
calyx  of  a  budding  rose.  By  and  by  when 
the  rose  is  over-ripe,  or  when  the  frosts  come 
and  the  November  winds  are  trumpeting 
through  all  the  leafless  spaces  of  the  woods, 
will  be  the  time  to  die.  It  is  no  time  now, 
while  there  is  a  dark  space  left  on  earth  that 
love  can  brighten,  while  there  is  a  human 
lot  to  be  alleviated  by  a  smile,  or  a  burden 
to  be  lifted  with  a  sympathizing  tear.  It 
will  be  time  to  die  when  you  are  too  old  or 
too  sick  to  be  a  comfort  in  the  world,  but 
if  God  has  given  you  a  warm  heart  and  a 


218 


ready  hand,  look  about  you  and  be  glad  He 
lets  you  live.  Yesterday  I  was  passing 
through  the  street  and  I  saw  a  woman  stoop 
down  and  pick  up  a  faded  lilac  from  the  mid- 
dle of  a  crossing  and  transfer  it  to  a  corner 
where  it  would  not  be  trampled  under  foot. 
The  world  wants  such  people  alive  in  it,  not 
buried  under  its  green  sods.  The  heart  that 
is  not  unmindful  of  a  crushed  flower  will  be 
a  royal  hand  in  the  ministrations  of  life.  May 
the  day  tarry  long  on  its  way  that  lays  in 
the  grave  such  helpful,  tender  hands  that 
seek  to  do  good. 


The  good  book  says,  "Love  thy  neighbor 
as  thyself,"  but  it  don't  say,  Tell  thy  neighbor 
all  thy  secrets.  We  can  love  one  another 
without  establishing  an  unsafe  intimacy.  In 
an  age  when  so  little  remains  set  apart  and 
sacred,  keep  the  treasury  of  your  inmost 
heart  intact.  It  is  a  hard  thing  to  believe 
that  in  every  present  friend  is  hidden  a  pos- 
sible future  enemy,  but  it  is  safer  to  shape 
the  conduct  of  our  life  upon  that  belief  than 
to  live  to  see  our  inmost  thoughts  and  the 
sanctities  of  one's  heart  of  hearts  hawked 


about  like  green  peas  in  a  street  vender's 
basket  by  a  spiteful  and  treacherous  enemy. 
The  safest  course  to  pursue  in  a  world  so  full 
of  unfaith  and  desertions  is  to  be  friendly  and 
sweet  and  helpful  to  all,  but  communicative 
and  confiding  to  none. 


Once  when  I  was  a  child,  with  two  long 
yellow  braids  down  my  back,  and  a  very 
great  capacity  for  happiness  in  my  heart,  I 
lived  in  a  remote  country  with  an  aunt  who 
didn't  believe  in  any  one  having  too  good  a 
time  here  on  earth.  She  thought  they  would 
appreciate  the  new  Jerusalem  all  the  more, 
perhaps,  for  having  a  dismal  experience  here 
(there  are  lots  like  her,  too,  in  the  world  to- 
day). Well,  once  afterward  when  I  came 
home  from  school  (and,  ah!  as  I  write  how 
I  can  see  the  old  road  where  I  walked,  wind- 
ing its  way  under  silver  birches  by  the  side 
of  a  trout-brook),  somebody  came  out  of  the 
house  and  beckoned  wildly,  madly  for  me  to 
hurry  up.  It  was  'my  little  cousin,  and  she 
looked  as  though  she  had  just  skipped  out 
of  heaven !  Her  cheeks  were  all  aglow  and 
her  eyes  were  shining  like  stars.  "Oh,  come ! 


220 

Come  quick !"  she  shouted.  "There's  some- 
thing in  the  parlor."  I  made  haste  to  enter, 
and  there  before  me  sat  a  doll,  the  biggest 
and  most  splendid  it  had  ever  entered  my 
young  heart  to  imagine.  It  was  dressed  in 
pink  tarletan,  and  had  a  pair  of  jeweled  ear- 
rings in  its  exceedingly  life-like  ears.  At 
once  I  became  embarrassed.  Self-conscious- 
ness sprang  into  full  being.  I  was  painfully 
aware  that  my  own  dress  and  general  appear- 
ance suffered  by  contrast  with  the  doll.  Nor 
have  I  ever  since  experienced  a  keener  sen- 
sation of  embarrassment  than  overcame  me 
as  I  faced  that  gaudy  image  in  wax.  My 
aunt's  sarcastic  remark,  "No  wonder  that 
child's  mother  can't  lay  up  a  cent  for  a  rainy 
day  when  she  throws  away  her  dollars  on  a 
doll  like  that!"  gave  me  the  sad  impression 
that  my  darling  mother  was  a  spendthrift, 
something  after  the  pattern  of  the  prodigal 
son.  From  the  first  moment  the  doll  was 
a  source  of  disappointment  and  sorrow  to 
me.  I  never  could  play  with  it  with  any 
comfort  because  I  was  afraid  of  soiling  its 
splendid  clothes,  losing  its  earrings,  or  feel- 
ing myself  and  my  calico  and  homespun 
abashed  by  its  superior  attire.  That  doll  did 
me  no  good,  and  just  what  it  did  for  me  its 


costly  and  extravagantly  dressed  sisterhood 
is  doing  for  hundreds  of  little  girls  to-day. 
Too  fine  to  be  played  with,  rigged  out  in  all 
its  paraphernalia  of  empty  headed  flesh  and 
blood  women,  with  powder,  puff  and  bustles, 
real  jewelry  and  costly  lingerie,  the  mod- 
ern doll  is  a  demoralizer,  a  torment. 


Protracted  broiling  is,  I  think,  on  the 
whole,  more  wearing  to  the  sensibilities  than 
sudden  conflagration.  A  lightning  stroke 
is  soon  over,  but  who  shall  deliver  us  from 
the  torments  of  dog-days?  A  bull  of  Bashan 
encountered  in  a  ten-acre  lot  may  be  out- 
run, but  who  shall  escape  from  a  cloud  of 
mosquitoes  on  a  windless  night?  Give  me 
any  day  a  life  to  live  with  a  tempestuous, 
gusty  sort  of  person,  and  I  can  endure  it, 
but  deliver  me  from  existence  with  one  who 
bottles  up  his  thunder  and  looks  like  a  storm 
that  never  breaks.  A  hearty  shower,  beat- 
ing down  the  flowers  to  call  them  up  again 
in  fresher  beauty,  brightening  the  hills  and 
swelling  the  brooks,  treacling  with  musical 
footfall  the  dusty  streets,  and  lashing  the 
violet-tinted  lake  into  a  foam-flecked  sea, 


222 

veining  the  hot  air  with  sudden  fire,  and  call- 
ing out  a  thousand  echoes  to  answer  the 
thunder's  call,  is  it  not  far  better  than  lower- 
ing skies  that  look  rain  and  won't  yield 
it,  dragging,  sultry  days  of  neither  sunshine 
nor  storm? 

94 


LINES  TO  MY  LOVE. 

When  the  salt  has  left  the  ocean, 
And  the  moon  forgets  the  sea, 

When  with  gay  and  festive  motion 
Ox  shall  waltz  with  bee, 

When  we  wash  our  face  in  cinders, 

And  bake  our  meat  on  ice, 
When  tender  mercy  hinders 

The  cat  from  eating  the  mice, 

When  gray  heads  grace  young  shoulders 

And  icicles  form  in  June, 
When  Quakers  all  turn  soldiers, 
And  bull  frogs  sing  in  tune, 

Then,  and  not  till  then,  my  treasure, 
My  darling,  tender  and  true, 

My  heart  shall  claim  the  leisure 
To  think  no  more  of  you. 


glue*     223 

The  other  morning,  lured  by  the  splendor 
of  a  golden  day,  I  started  to  walk  to  town, 
a  distance  of  twenty-four  miles.  But  after 
the  tenth  mile  the  truth  was  so  forcibly  and 
increasingly  borne  in  upon  me  that  "all  flesh 
is  grass,"  and  that  the  strength  of  a  man  (or 
woman  either)  "lieth  not  in  his  heels,"  that 
I  postponed  the  finish  until  another  day.  But 
who  shall  take  from  me  the  glory  of  the 
start?  Shall  anybody  forget  that  a  sunrise 
was  fair  and  full  of  promise  because  the  noon 
was  clouded  and  the  evening  declined  into 
rain?  Although  my  twenty-five-mile  walk 
ended  at  the  tenth  in  a  rocking-chair,  yet 
those  ten  miles  were  beautiful  and  full  of 
glory. 

"It  will  certainly  kill  you!"  wailed  the 
martyr  as  I  bade  her  good-bye.  "Oh,  will 
it  kill  her?"  echoed  the  poor  little  Captain, 
and  lifted  up  her  voice  in  lamentation  as  I 
vanished  from  her  sight  and  struck  for  the 
bluff  road.  The  morning  was  so  beautiful 
that  I  could  imagine  the  world  nothing  but 
a  big  bunch  of  tulips  standing  within  a  crys- 
tal vase  in  the  sun.  The  maples  glistened 
like  gold,  and  were  flecked  with  ruby  drops 
that  burned  and  glowed  like  spilled  wine. 
The  oaks  were  russet  brown  and  dusky  pur- 


224 

pie,  cleft  here  and  there  with  vivid  green,  like 
glimpses  of  a  windy  sea  through  shadowed 
hills.  The  leaves  that  had  fallen  to  the  earth 
were  musical  underneath  the  foot,  and  gave 
forth  a  faint  fragrance  that  made  the  air  as 
sweet  as  any  bakeshop.  The  odor  of  fallen 
leaves  and  wood  shrubs  sinking  into  decay 
is  not  like  any  other  fragrance  so  much  as 
the  scent  of  well-baked  bread,  browned  and 
finished  in  summer's  ruddy  heat 

The  lake — but  what  can  I  say  to  fitly  de- 
scribe that  translucent  sapphire,  over  which 
a  mist  hung  like  a  gossamer  web  above  a 
blue-bell,  or  the  haze  of  slumber  upon  a 
drowsy  eye?  As  I  stood  upon  the  bluff,  be- 
fore the  road  struck  landward  through  the 
woods,  I  could  but  extend  my  arm  to  the 
glorious  expanse  of  waters  and  bless  the 
Lord  with  all  my  soul  for  so  lovely  a  place 
to  tarry  in  between  times.  If  this  world  is 
only  a  stopping-place,  a  country  through 
which  we  march  to  heaven,  as  Sherman 
marched  overland  to  the  sea,  then  thank 
God  for  so  glorious  a  prelude  to  eternity; 
and  what  shall  the  after  harmonies  be  when 
the  broken  sounds  of  idly-touched  flutes  and 
harps  are  so  divine? 

After  leaving  Ravinia  I  proceeded  to  get 


ant*     ite,     225 


lost  in  the  woods.  A  very  small  boy  and  a 
very  large  dog  were  standing  by  a  fence. 
"Does  that  dog  bite?"  I  asked.  "Yes'm," 
promptly  replied  the  sweet  and  candid  child. 
So  I  climbed  a  fence  and  struck  for  the  tim- 
ber. I  soon  found  that  all  knowledge  of 
the  points  of  the  compass  had  failed  me.  "If 
I  am  going  east,"  I  mused,  "I  shall  soon 
strike  the  lake  ;  if  west,  the  track  ;  south  will 
eventually  bring  me  to  the  Chicago  River; 
but  a  northerly  direction  will  restore  me  to 
the  sleuth-hound.  I  will  say  my  prayers  and 
endeavor  to  keep  to  the  south."  The  way 
grew  denser.  My  hat  gave  me  some  trou- 
ble, as  it  insisted  upon  hanging  itself  to 
every  tree  in  the  wilderness.  The  twigs 
twitched  the  hair-pins  from  my  hair  and 
poked  themselves  into  my  eyes.  A  few 
corpulent  bugs  toyed  with  my  ankles  and  a 
large  caterpillar  passed  the  blockade  of  my 
collar-button  and  basked  in  the  warmth  of 
my  neck.  I  nearly  stepped  on  a  snake  and 
was  confronted  by  a  toad  that  froze  me  with 
a  glance  of  its  basilisk  eye.  So  I  changed 
my  course  and  suddenly  entered  a  little 
woodland  graveyard  —  a  handful  of  neglect- 
ed mounds  of  earth  and  silence.  No  tomb- 
stones marked  the  graves.  A  rudely-con- 

15 


226 


structed  cross  of  wood,  gray  with  lichens, 
alone  told  of  consecrated  ground.  There, 
away  off  from  the  road  in  the  silence  of  the 
woods,  a  few  tired  hearts  were  taking  their 
rest.  Silently  I  stood  a  moment,  then  stole 
away  and  left  the  place  to  its  hush  of  lonely 
peace.  What  right  had  I,  with  my  frets  and 
feathers,  my  twig-punctured  eye-balls  and 
my  toad-perturbed  nerves,  to  bring  an  un- 
quiet presence  within  this  abode  of  silence 
and  of  rest?  I  sat  down  on  a  fence-rail  a 
moment  while,  like  Miss  Riderhood,  I  deftly 
twisted  up  my  back  hair  and  mused  briefly. 
When  the  time  comes,  oh,  intensely  alive 
and  happy  Amber,  for  your  feet  to  halt  in 
the  march,  ask  to  be  buried  in  the  woods, 
where  your  grave  will  be  forgotten  and  the 
constant  years  with  falling  leaves  and  driv- 
ing snows  may  have  a  good  chance  to  ob- 
literate the  earthly  record  of  your  misspent 
years. 

"Sooner  or  later  the  shadows  shall  creep 
Over  my  rest  in  the  woods  so  deep; 
Sooner  or  later  —  " 

But  enough  of  this,  my  dear.  I  did  not 
intend  to  incorporate  a  whole  cemetery,  an 
obituary  discourse,  and  "lines  to  the  depart- 


227 


ed"  in  my  "Glints."  After  leaving  the  little 
graveyard  I  allowed  my  instincts  to  carry 
me  in  a  new  direction,  and  soon  a  rustling 
among  the  dead  leaves,  and  the  sound  of 
hushed  breathing,  convinced  me  that  I  was 
approaching  a  living  presence.  I  felt  for  my 
revolver.  It  was  there,  but  unloaded.  (I 
would  sooner  walk  arm  in  arm  with  death 
than  carry  loaded  firearms.)  I  advanced 
bravely  and  became  speedily  aware  of  a 
score  or  so  of  large  and  startled  eyes,  all 
fixed  upon  me.  A  half-score  of  woolly 
heads  were  lifted,  and  a  flock  of  sheep  stood 
ready  to  take  instant  flight  if  I  showed  sign 
of  battle.  "My  dear  young  friends,"  said  I, 
"it  is  a  relief  to  meet  you,  and  I  give  you 
good  morrow.  I  fully  expected  to  encoun- 
ter a  band  of  cutthroat  tramps  who  should 
toss  pennies  for  my  heart's  blood.  The  bless- 
ings of  a  rescued  woman  rest  upon  your 
crinkly  coats,  my  beauties."  A  half-hour's 
walk  through  the  woods  brought  me  to  a 
clearing  where  a  flock  of  bluebirds  were 
holding  council  together  among  the  falling 
leaves.  They  seemed  inclined  to  start  south- 
ward, but  tarried  for  one  last  frolic.  How 
beautiful  they  were  as  they  flitted  in  and  out 
among  the  golden  underbrush  no  eye  but 


228 


mine  shall  ever  know.  Bluebirds  have  al- 
ways been  associated  with  thoughts  of 
spring  and  apple-blossoms  heretofore.  I 
could  hardly  believe  my  senses  to  find  them 
here  amid  the  late  and  falling  leaves.  For 
a  while  I  loitered  in  their  midst  and  wished 
for  a  fairy  to  change  me  into  one  of  their 
winged  company,  that  I  might  forget  care 
and  find  no  need  of  revolvers;  but  time,  as 
sternly  announced  by  my  exquisite  Water- 
bury,  admitted  of  no  delay,  so  I  hied  me  on- 
ward. At  this  point  in  my  walk  I  approached 
a  broken  gate  and  a  stretch  of  shockingly 
muddy  road.  The  vanity  of  confidence  in 
any  strength  that  emanates  alone  from  the 
"heels  of  a  man"  was  by  this  time  beginning 
to  make  itself  felt.  I  longed  to  sit  down  in 
the  miry  way  and  go  to  sleep.  A  child  could 
have  played  with  'me  despite  my  revolver, 
and  a  day-old  lamb  have  gained  the 
victory  in  a  personal  encounter.  At 
this  moment,  while  I  lingered,  picking 
my  way  daintily  from  tuft  to  tuft  of 
the  swamp,  I  was  confronted  by  a 
tall,  gaunt  woman.  Of  course  you  don't 
believe  this;  it  reads  too  much  like  a 
dime  novel.  You  think  I  am  painting  my 
picture  in  lurid  tints  for  public  exhibition, 


229 

but  in  spite  of  your  incredulity  I  repeat  that 
I  was  confronted  by  a  tall,  gaunt  woman, 
who  appeared  as  suddenly  as  though  in- 
voked by  an  evil  spell  from  the  mud.  The 
woman  was  shabbily  dressed  and  wore  an 
old-fashioned  scoop  bonnet.  She  had  a 
bundle  on  her  arm,  and  was  dragging  by 
the  hair  of  the  head,  as  it  were,  an  indescrib- 
able umbrella.  My  voice  sank  out  of  sight, 
like  a  stone  in  the  sea,  and  my  feet  grew  too 
heavy  to  lift.  I  stared  in  silence.  "Is  your 
name  Maria  Hopkins?"  asked  the  woman. 

"Indeed  it  is,"  I  replied,  prepared  to  get 
down  on  my  knees  and  swear  to  the  truth 
of  what  I  said,  if  need  be.  "I  thought  so," 
said  my  companion;  "let  us  pray."  But  I 
didn't  stop  for  prayers.  Convinced  that  my 
time  had  come,  and  that  I  was  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  lunatic,  I  fell  over  the  fence  and 
ran.  When  I  was  out  of  breath  I  looked 
over  my  shoulder,  but  the  woman  was  no- 
where in  sight.  To  pursue  my  walk  seemed 
unnecessary,  especially  as  I  was  nearing  the 
house  of  a  friend,  so  summoning  what 
strength  was  left  me  I  toddled  onward,  com- 
pleting my  tenth  mile  in  five  hours  from  the 
starting.  After  my  sympathizing  friend  had 
emptied  her  camphor  bottle  upon  me  I 


230 


asked  her  if  she  knew  a  party  of  the  name 
of  Hopkins  anywhere  in  town,  and  if  there 
was  any  resemblance  between  such  a  person 
and  myself.  I  saw  she  thought  I  was  de- 
lirious, and  no  explanation  has  ever  dis- 
pelled that  belief.  Some  day  I  shall  com- 
plete the  walk  and  write  up  the  finish. 


Said  some  one  to  me  the  other  day: 
"Amber,  you  have  lots  of  good  friends 
among  the  girls."  "Good,"  said  I;  "then  I 
am  all  right."  Anybody  who  gains  the 
friendly  approval  of  the  right  sort  of  girls 
has  a  passport  right  through  to  glory!  I 
mean  it.  There  is  nothing  on  earth  I  love 
better  than  a  good,  sweet  girl.  I  would  rath- 
er watch  a  crowd  of  them  any  day  than  all 
the  pictures  Fra  Angelica  ever  painted  of 
saints  in  paradise.  But  there  are  girls  and 
girls.  There  is  as  much  difference  between 
them  as  there  is  between  griddle  cakes  made 
with  yeast  and  griddle  cakes  in  which  the 
careless  cook  forgot  to  put  the  leaven.  Shall 
I  tell  you  the  kind  of  girl  I  especially  adore? 
Well,  first  of  all,  let  us  take  the  working  girl. 
She  is  not  a  "lady"  in  the  acceptance  of  the 


term  by  this  latter  day's  hybrid  democracy. 
She  is  just  a  blithe,  cheery,  sweet-tempered 
young  woman.  She  may  have  a  father  rich 
enough  to  support  her  at  home,  but  for  all 
that  she  is  a  working  girl.  She  is  never  idle. 
She  is  studying  or  sewing  or  helping  about 
the  home  part  of  the  day.  She  is  romping 
or  playing  or  swinging  out  of  doors  the 
other  part.  She  is  never  frowsy  nor  untidy 
nor  lazy.  She  is  never  rude  nor  slangy  nor 
bold.  And  yet  she  is  always  full  of  fun  and 
ready  for  frolic.  She  does  not  depend  upon 
a  servant  to  do  what  she  can  do  for  herself. 
She  is  considerate  to  all  who  serve  her.  She 
is  reverent  to  the  old  and  thoughtful  of  the 
feeble.  She  never  criticises  when  criticism 
can  wound,  and  she  is  ready  with  a  helpful, 
loving  word  for  every  one.  Sometimes  she 
has  no  father,  or  her  parents  are  too  poor 
to  support  her.  Then  she  goes  out  and 
earns  her  living  by  whatever  her  hands  find 
to  do.  She  clerks  in  a  store,  or  she  counts 
out  change  at  a  cashier's  desk,  or  she 
teaches  school,  or  she  clicks  a  typewriter,  or 
rather  a  telegrapher's  key,  but  always  and 
everywhere  she  is  modest  and  willing  and 
sweet,  provided  she  doesn't  get  that  meddle- 
some little  "bee"  of  "lady"-hood  in  her  bon- 


232 


net.  If  she  tries  to  be  a  lady  at  the  expense 
of  all  that  is  honest  and  frank  in  her  nature, 
she  is  like  a  black  baby  crying  for  a  black 
kitten  in  the  dark  —  you  can't  tell  what  she  is 
exactly,  but  you  know  she  is  mighty  dis- 
agreeable. She  has  too  much  dignity  to  be 
imposed  upon,  or  put  to  open  affront,  but 
she  has  humility  also,  and  purity  that  differs 
from  prudishness  as  a  dove  in  the  air  differs 
from  a  stuffed  bird  in  a  showcase.  She  is 
quick  to  apologize  when  she  knows  she  is 
in  the  wrong,  yet  no  young  queen  ever  car- 
ried a  higher  head  than  she  can  upon  justi- 
fiable occasions.  She  is  not  always  imagin- 
ing herself  looked  down  upon  because  she 
is  poor.  She  knows  full  well  that  out  of  her 
own  heart  and  mouth  proceed  the  only  wit- 
nesses that  can  absolve  or  condemn  her.  If 
she  eats  peanuts  in  public  places,  and  talks 
loud,  and  flirts  with  strange  boys,  and  chews 
gum  or  displays  a  toothpick  she  is  common, 
even  though  she  wore  a  four-foot  placard 
emblazoned  with  the  misnomer,  "lady."  If 
she  is  quick  to  be  courteous,  unselfish,  gentle 
and  retiring  in  speech  and  manner  in  public 
places,  she  is  true  gold,  even  though  her 
dress  be  faded  and  her  bonnet  be  old.  You 
cannot  mistake  any  girl  any  more  than  you 


233 

can  mistake  the  sunshine  that  follows  the 
rain  or  the  lark  that  springs  from  the  haw- 
thorn hedge.  All  things  that  are  blooming 
and  sweet  attend  her!  The  earth  is  better 
for  her  passing  through  it  and  heaven  will 
be  fairer  for  her  habitation  therein.  God 
bless  her! 


Some  day  I  am  going  gunning.  In  a  re- 
form dress  suit,  with  the  right  to  vote  in  my 
pocket,  and  a  shotgun  delicately  poised  upon 
my  enfranchised  shoulder,  I  shall  start  forth 
on  my  "safety"  and  proceed  to  lay  low  for 
a  few  victims.  The  first  to  perforate  with 
my  murderous  bullet  shall  be  the  fiend  in 
human  guise  who  toys  with  my  "copy"  from 
time  to  time  and  makes  me  spell  whether 
without  an  "h,"  or  so  distorts  the  sense  of 
what  I  write  that  'my  best  friends  wouldn't 
know  me  from  Martin  Tupper.  I  shall  show 
no  mercy  to  him.  I  shall  continue  to  shoot 
until  he  is  perforated  like  a  yard  of  mosquito 
netting,  and  I  shall  leave  a  little  note  pinned 
to  the  lapel  of  his  coat  saying  that  I  have 
more  bullets  left  for  his  "successor  in  trust." 
If  there  is  one  thing  that  has  survived  the 


234 


buffetings  of  a  harsh  and  somewhat  discon- 
certing bout  with  fate  it  is  the  knowledge 
that  I  know  how  to  spell.  But  even  of  this 
the  fiend  in  question  would  deprive  me.  He 
has  brought  his  fate  upon  himself  and  will 
excuse  me  if  I  remark  that  I  thirst  for  his 
gore. 


Dominated  by  that  superfluous  energy 
which  has,  so  far,  rendered  my  earthly  career 
cyclonic,  I  called  together  a  confiding 
band  during  the  height  of  the  recent  snow 
carnival  for  the  purpose  of  a  sleigh  ride. 
The  opening  up  of  that  sleigh  ride  was  pro- 
pitious. The  caravan  moved  due  north, 
bound  for  a  destination  that  shall  be  name- 
less. We  tried  to  look  upon  the  attention 
we  attracted  as  a  public  ovation,  but  it  was 
far  more  suggestive  of  the  way  they  used  to 
accompany  outlaws  beyond  the  limits  of  a 
mining  town,  or  of  the  children  of  Israel 
chased  by  Pharaoh's  mocking  hosts.  It  was 
cold.  Our  noses,  in  the  light  of  a  wan  old 
moon,  looked  like  doorknobs.  Our  ears 
cracked  to  the  lightest  touch,  like  harp 
strings  in  the  wind.  Patient,  long-suffering 


235 


"doctor!"  Shall  I  ever  forget  how,  turning 
to  him  when  the  carnival  of  sport  was  at  its 
height,  I  murmured:  "Are  you  enjoying 
yourself,  dear?"  And  he  replied,  with 
ghastly  sarcasm:  "Tumultuously,  my  love!" 
So  'might  an  arctic  frigate,  ice-bound,  have 
hailed  a  polar  bear.  Suddenly,  when  all 
seemed  progressing  serenely,  we  came  to  a 
standstill,  something  like  what  might  be  ex- 
pected from  a  runaway  horse  checked  by 
the  newly  patented  electric  button.  What 
was  the  matter?  Bare  ground.  Now,  under 
ordinary  circumstances,  the  term  "bare 
ground"  is  not  synonymous  of  disaster.  But 
if  ever  in  the  dispensation  of  providence  it 
falls  to  your  lot  to  be  one  of  a  band  of  sleigh- 
riding  imbeciles  then  shall  those  two  words 
be  to  you  what  snags  in  the  channel  are  to 
seaward-hastening  keels.  The  driver  shout- 
ed and  became  distinctly  profane.  "Would 
you  please  get  out  and  walk  over  this  bad 
place?"  said  he.  With  such  speed  as  our 
petrified  members  would  allow  we  all  got 
out,  and  the  women  sat  on  a  wayside  fence, 
while  the  men  "heaved  to"  and  dragged  the 
chariot  over  about  a  mile  and  a  quarter  of 
bare  ground. 

"Shall  we  make  for  the  nearest  line  of 


236       itf#£mciry  tmfc 


street  cars?"  asked  one  of  the  party,  whose 
well-knovvn  position  as  Sunday-school 
superintendent  kept  him  in  a  state  of  ab- 
normal calm.  "What  will  become  of  the 
sleigh  and  the  poor,  tired  horses?"  asked 
that  one  of  the  party  directly  responsible  for 
this  mad  jubilee. 

"Oh,  you  women  can  lead  the  horses  while 
we  men  carry  the  old  band  wagon  on  our 
shoulders  back  to  shelter."  "It  is  no  time 
for  jokes,"  cried  one,  "I  am  going  home," 
and  we  all  followed  suit,  to  vow  later,  in  the 
shelter  of  our  happy  homes,  that  our  future 
attempts  at  sleigh  riding  should  be  confined 
to  wheels  and  the  time  of  roses. 


I  think  I  would  rather  lose  this  serviceable 
old  right  hand  of  mine  than  have  it  write 
a  word  that  could  be  construed  into  defense 
or  encouragement  of  loud  and  blatant  wom- 
en. The  over-dressed  and  slangy  sisterhood 
who  parade  in  public  places  and  storm  the 
land  these  latter  days  will  meet  with  nothing 
from  Amber  and  her  pen  but  wholesale  de- 
nunciation while  the  lamp  of  an  insignificant 
life  holds  out  to  burn.  I  hate  them  as  a 


237 

Quaker  hates  gunpowder,  and  I  am  more 
than  half  inclined  to  believe  that  the  total 
extermination  of  the  stock  would  be  one  of 
the  supremest  blessings  that  could  be  vouch- 
safed to  man.  The  tendencies  toward  bold- 
ness and  effrontery  which  characterize  the 
present  day,  the  unabashed  speech  and  action 
and  the  manifest  lack  of  old-fashioned  cour- 
tesy and  the  reserve  that  springs  from  gentle 
breeding  are  evils  that  grow  rather  than 
diminish.  A  gentlewoman,  a  pure,  correct 
and  lovely  gentlewoman,  occupies  a  loftier 
place  than  any  throne,  and  wields  an  in- 
fluence more  potent  than  the  swing  of  a 
jeweled  scepter.  Yet  it  is  never  by  vulgar 
assumption  that  she  enters  into  her  king- 
dom. The  parrot  is  not  a  bird  we  prize, 
although  its  plumage  is  resplendent  with 
green  and  purple  and  gold.  In  the  proud 
breast  of  the  homely  and  unpretentious 
thrush  is  hidden  the  heavenly  song.  Wher- 
ever gentle  forbearance  is  found,  wherever 
patience  and  tenderness  and  love  idealize 
and  sweeten  life,  there  you  will  find  woman 
as  heaven  meant  she  should  be — the 
crowned  queen  of  hearth  and  home.  And  in 
saying  all  this  I  do  not  wish  to  be  under- 
stood as  advancing  the  idea  that  a  woman 


238 


has  no  wider  scope  than  home,  or  that  she 
must  be  all  sugar,  without  any  spice.  Next 
to  the  loud  and  bold-mannered  woman  as 
a  specimen  to  be  detested  I  would  put  the 
meek  Griselda,  with  less  spirit  than  a 
boneless  herring  and  less  sparkle  than  tepid 
tea.  There  is  no  charm  left  to  femininity 
when  you  add  idiocy  to  a  pretty  woman's 
make-up.  A  fool  may  be  very  docile,  but  a 
fool  is  not  good  company.  Of  the  two,  per- 
haps, if  a  man  were  forced  to  choose  a  com- 
rade to  share  a  life  that  was  to  be  cast  on  a 
South  Sea  island,  he  would  do  better  to  take 
the  "loud"  type.  Either  would  drive  him  to 
the  "cups,"  if  such  relief  were  to  be  found 
upon  an  island  of  the  sea.  But  who  would 
not  rather  go  to  wreck  in  a  storm  than 
founder  in  becalmed  waters?  Or,  to  bring 
it  nearer  home,  who  would  not  rather  be 
drowned  away  out  in  the  middle  of  Lake 
Michigan  in  a  howling  gale  than  in  a  gentle 
7x9  cistern?  If  circumstances  call  a  woman 
out  into  the  thickest  of  the  old  bread-and- 
butter  fight  that  has  been  waging  ever  since 
Eve  ran  afoul  of  the  apple,  it  is  to  her  credit 
if  she  rolls  up  her  sleeves  and  goes  into  the 
thickest  of  the  scrimmage  and  holds  her 
own  with  the  pluckiest  of  them  all.  It  is 


239 

no  disgrace  to  her  to  be  quick  to  seize  an 
opportunity  and  shrewd  to  find  a  point  of 
vantage.  Let  her  rank  with  the  men,  and 
make  ever  so  fine  a  name  for  herself  in  what- 
ever business  vocation  she  chooses  to  make 
her  own,  it  will  not  detract  one  whit  from 
her  womanliness,  provided  she  keep  herself 
unsullied  of  soul  and  tender  of  heart.  The 
moment  she  lends  herself  to  practices  that 
lead  men  to  forget  to  touch  their  hats  when 
she  passes  by  she  becomes  unsexed,  and  a 
sexless  woman  is  worse  than  a  pestilence, 
a  cyclone  and  a  strike  condensed  into  one 
vast  calamity.  No  sensible  man  will  think 
any  less  of  a  woman  if  she  has  spirit  enough 
to  get  downright  mad  at  injustice,  insult  or 
iniquity.  I  don't  know,  though,  why  we 
women  should  always  get  together  and  com- 
pare notes  as  to  what  course  of  conduct  will 
best  please  the  men.  They  don't  lie  awake 
nights  to  conform  their  behavior  to  ways 
and  manners  that  shall  please  us;  but,  even 
putting  our  argument  on  the  basis  of  what 
shall  win  approval  from  men,  I  repeat  that 
I  don't  believe  that  there  are  many  of  them 
who  would  object  to  a  woman  knowing  how 
to  use  a  pistol  or  to  her  carrying  one  in  case 
of  an  unprotected  walk,  or  a  night  spent  in 


240 


an  unguarded  home.  There  would  be  few- 
er tales  to  tell  of  assaults  and  woful  disap- 
pearances of  young  women  if  all  our  girls 
were  versed  in  the  ethics  of  the  revolver. 
Ah,  my  dear,  you  can  never  get  a  more  ador- 
able portrait  of  a  woman  to  hang  upon  the 
walls  of  glorified  fancy  than  the  pen-portrait 
drawn  by  the  master  hand  of  Robert  Brown- 
ing when  he  wrote  of  beautiful  Evelyn 
Hope:  "God  made  her  of  spirit,  fire  and 
dew."  There  is  the  swiftest  and  most  splen- 
did stroke  of  the  artist's  brush  ever  given  to 
literature.  And  yet  half  the  world  would 
substitute  "putty"  for  "spirit,"  "feathers"  for 
"fire"  and  "dough"  for  "dew." 


The  only  way  to  rid  the  world  of  bubble- 
marriages — marriages  that  turn  out  empti- 
ness with  one  drop  of  water  as  the  residuum, 
and  that  drop  a  tear — is  to  educate  our  girls 
and  boys  to  something  higher  than  playing 
with  pipes  and  soapy  water.  Give  them 
something  more  earnest  to  do,  and  see  that 
they  do  it.  Compel  men  and  women  to 
choose  their  life  companions  with  at  least  a 
tithe  of  the  solemnity  they  bring  to  the  se- 


241 

lection  of  a  carriage  horse  or  a  ribbon.  Leg- 
islate laws  against  early  marriages.  "I 
can't  tolerate  children,"  said  a  little  idiot  to 
me  the  other  day,  "but  I  adore  dogs!"  And 
yet  that  girl  had  an  engagement  ring  on 
her  finger.  There  should  be  a  special  se- 
clusion for  such  girls  until  they  develop 
some  instinct  of  womanliness,  and  they 
should  no  more  be  allowed  to  marry  than  a 
Choctaw  chief  should  be  allowed  to  take 
charge  of  a  kindergarten.  You  nor  I  can 
hope  to  turn  a  bubble  into  substance  after 
it  is  once  blown. 


Last  week  I  moved.  At  least  I  tried  to, 
but  I  haven't  fully  accomplished  the  feat  yet. 
If  it  costs  one  woman  a  desk  and  an  um- 
brella, the  pangs  of  a  seven-horse  torment 
to  move  one  block,  what  must  it  cost  a  fam- 
ily of  fourteen  to  move  seven  wagonloads  a 
mile?  There  is  a  problem  that  will  keep  you 
awake  nights.  When  they  said  to  me :  "Oh, 
it  will  be  nothing  for  you  to  move!"  When 
they  pointed  with  derision  at  my  few  be- 
longings I  said  to  myself:  "All  right;  per- 
haps it  will  be  easier  than  my  fears."  So  I 
packed  up  my  penknife,  my  mucilage  pot, 

16 


242 

my  paper  cutter,  my  eleven  dozen  pencils 
and  my  assortment  of  stub  pens,  my  violet 
ink,  my  clock,  pictures,  calendars,  Japanese 
fans,  scraps  of  poetry,  magazines,  books, 
lemons,  buttercups,  blotting  pads,  and  sun- 
dry trifles  it  were  waste  of  time  to  enumer- 
ate, and  sallied  forth  to  find  a  son  of  wrath 
to  transport  them  to  new  quarters.  "How 
much  will  you  charge  to  move  two  articles 
of  furniture  one  block?"  I  asked  a  guile- 
less Scandinavian  teamster.  "Three  dol- 
lars," replied  he  with  touching  promptitude. 
I  passed  him  by,  and  after  two  days'  search 
found  a  down-trodden  African  who  said  he 
would  undertake  the  job  for  $1.50.  I  wish 
you  could  have  seen  the  look  in  the  darky's 
face  when  he  tried  to  lift  the  desk.  "Gor-a- 
mighty,  Missus,  what's  in  that  ar  desk?" 
cried  he.  I  had  to  unpack  every  blessed 
article  but  the  penknife  and  a  postage  stamp 
before  he  would  move  the  thing,  and  all  the 
long  day  I  trotted  back  and  forth  with  mar- 
ket baskets  full  of  the  original  contents  of 
that  desk.  When  at  last  I  had  them  moved 
I  couldn't  find  anything.  I  wanted  my  pen- 
cils, but  haven't  seen  'em  yet.  The  paper- 
weight had  smashed  the  ink  bottle,  and  the 
mucilage  had  formed  a  glassy  pool  in  which 


243 

my  buttercups  were  anchored  like  islands. 
The  frizzes  and  hairpins  and  other  little 
what-nots  that  I  kept  in  the  right  hand 
drawer  had  dabbled  themselves  in  the  ink 
and  mucilage  and  fused  themselves  into  one 
indistinguishable  horror.  I  haven't  been 
able  to  find  one  thing  that  I  wanted  since  I 
moved  but  a  toothpick,  and  that  don't  look 
exactly  natural.  The  overshoes,  and  gos- 
samer, and  jersey  waists,  soap  and  chamois 
skins  that  I  secreted  in  the  left  hand  drawer 
haven't  been  seen  since  they  left  in  the  mar- 
ket basket  under  convoy  of  the  Ethiopian. 
He  has  probably  opened  a  costumer's  shop 
on  Halsted  street  with  them.  When  I  move 
again  I  shall  carry  my  pencils  behind  my  ear 
and  my  penknife  between  my  teeth.  I'll 
never  be  found  a  second  time  stringing  my 
beads  with  a  toothpick  and  relying  for  time 
upon  a  clock  with  the  hour  hand  missing. 
When  next  I  move  may  it  be  straight 
through  to  glory,  where  the  lease  is  long 
and  the  landlord  never  sublets. 


Let  anybody  in  this  world  really  under- 
take to  thoroughly  do  his  duty;  to  do  it  in 


244 

the  face  of  opposition,  prejudice  and  the 
meddling  interference  of  fools,  and  he  be- 
comes a  target  set  upon  a  hill  for  the  conven- 
ient aim  of  popular  scorn.  It  is  harder  for 
a  man  to  be  true  to  a  principle  than  it  is 
to  face  a  gun.  If  an  employe  in  the  daily 
discharge  of  duty  aims  to  be  prompt,  faith- 
ful and  fearless  he  is  boycotted  by  his  asso- 
ciates in  almost  as  conspicuous  a  way  as 
was  poor  little  David  Copperfield  with  the 
pasteboard  motto  on  his  back.  We  all  of  us 
have  known  in  early  life  the  "pet  scholar" 
of  the  school,  the  dear  little  virtuous  prig 
who  never  did  anything  out  of  the  way,  who 
never  played  a  prank  or  accomplished  any- 
thing but  a  pattern  pose.  Small  wonder 
that  we  hated  him!  Good  behavior,  which 
has  for  its  aim  merely  the  disconcerting  of 
others  and  the  aggrandizement  of  one's  self, 
is  snobbery  and  should  be  loathed  as  such. 
But  there  is  a  courage  of  over-conviction 
which  leads  a  man  to  hold  himself  honest 
among  thieves,  pure  among  libertines  and 
faithful  among  time-servers  and  strikers.  It 
was  such  a  spirit  as  this  that  made  dear  lit- 
tle "Tom,"  at  "Rugby,"  loyal  to  his  mother's 
teachings,  and  led  him  to  kneel  amid  a 
crowd  of  jeering  boys  to  say  the  prayers  she 


anfc  glue*     245 

taught  him.  It  is  such  a  spirit  as  this  that 
holds  a  man  or  woman  true  to  the  sense  of 
justice  in  an  unjust  world,  and  keeps  them 
undaunted  in  the  midst  of  enemies,  who  hate 
them  for  doing  their  duty  and  caring  as 
much  for  the  work  as  they  do  for  the  wages 
that  work  commands.  The  man  who  can 
hold  himself  beyond  the  reach  of  bribery, 
uncorrupted  in  corruptible  times,  and  sure 
to  keep  his  colors  flying,  with  never  a  chance 
to  trail  them  in  the  dust  for  politic  purposes, 
is  a  greater  hero  than  many  a  blue-coat  who 
marches  to  battle.  Give  us  a  few  more  such 
heroes,  oh,  good  and  merciful  dispenser  of 
destinies,  and  sweep  off  the  track  a  hundred 
thousand  or  so  of  the  eye-servants,  time- 
servers  and  money-graspers  who  keep  the 
profitable  places  of  the  world's  giving  away 
from  honest  men  and  faithful  women. 


A   BOBOLINK'S   SONG. 

The  earth  was  awake,  and  like  a  gay  rover, 
His  knapsack  of  sunshine  loose  strapped  on 

his  back, 
Through  mists,  and  through  dews,  and  through 

fine  purple  clover 

Was  faring  his  way  down  the  summer's  green 
track. 


246 


I  sat  all  alone  'neath  the  shade  of  a  willow, 
And  saw  the  old  earth  blithely  jogging  along, 

While  over  the  fields,  like  the  foam  on  a  billow, 
The  morning  was  breaking  in  bloesom  and 
song. 

O,  list!  and,  O,  hear!  like  the  wing  of  a  swallow, 
Updarting  from  fields  that  are  golden   with 

corn; 
With  the  ring  and  the  swing  of  a  huntsman's 

"view  hallo," 
Some  fairy  is  winding  his  sweet  elfin  horn. 

Now   up   like   a  flame,   and  now   down   like   a 

shower; 
Now  here  and  now  there  in  its  sparkle  and 

gloom; 

It  rings  and  it  swings  like  a  bell  in  a  tower, 
Wide  casting  its  notes  as  a  wind-flower  its 
bloom. 

Tis  a  bobolink  singing  among  the  sweet  clover; 

A  bobolink  whimsical,  happy  and  free, 
And  its  voice  like  new  wine  makes  earth,  the 

old  rover, 

Half  tipsy  with  jollity,   clean  daft  with  his 
glee. 


It  fell  to  my  lot  the  other  day  to  witness 
a  scene  that  I  shall  not  soon  forget.  Death 
has  myriad  ways  of  coming  to  the  sons  and 


ant* 

daughters  of  men,  and  it  chanced  that  death 
had  drawn  near  to  a  certain  dear  woman 
in  a  way  that  well  might  blanch  the  cheek 
of  the  bravest  hero.  As  surely  condemned 
to  die  as  is  the  murderer  when  he  hears  the 
judge's  sentence,  with  absolute  hopelessness 
of  any  cure,  and  with  the  certainty  of  no 
more  than  a  brief  span  of  weeks  wherein 
to  live,  this  brave  woman  faced  her  doom 
with  all  the  condemned  man's  certainty,  and 
yet  without  his  shame.  Grown  old  in  a  life 
of  peculiar  usefulness,  with  not  a  single 
abated  enthusiasm  and  with  a  heart  as  keen- 
ly attuned  to  nature's  as  is  the  flute  to  the 
master's  touch,  this  dear  old  heroine  calmly 
renounced  the  world  she  had  so  loved  and 
turned  her  face  direct  to  "headquarters," 
with  no  friend  to  interfere  between  herself 
and  God.  For  one  bitter  hour,  perhaps, 
she  wept  and  watched  alone  in  her  Gethse- 
mane,  then  turned  about  to  await  the  chariot 
wheels  of  her  deliverance  with  a  heart  as 
glad  and  a  faith  as  warm  and  bright  as  a 
little  child's  who  waits  in  the  shadow  the 
coming  of  a  loving  father  to  lead  her  home. 
Taken  to  the  hospital  to  die,  knowing  that 
those  doors  swung  for  her  last  entrance  with- 
in any  earthly  home,  fully  realizing  that  from 


248     |to0*mavij  an** 

beneath  that  roof  her  soul  should  ascend  to 
its  home  beyond  the  stars,  bidding  good-bye 
forever  to  the  sunset  skies  and  the  rural 
walks  that  she  had  so  loved,  to  all  the  bright 
company  of  wild  flowers  she  had  known  by 
name,  to  the  pomp  of  seasons  and  the  com- 
munion of  happy  homes,  she  took  up  her 
abode  in  the  ward  of  the  incurables.  Every 
day  she  sits  in  the  sunshine  and  reads  her 
books  or  indites  letters  to  her  friends.  Every 
day  she  struggles  with  devastating  pain,  and 
every  day  she  grows  a  little  thinner  and  a 
little  weaker  in  the  body,  while  her  soul 
springs  heavenward  like  a  white  flower  from 
the  dust,  which  no  earthly  blight  can  reach. 
As  I  sat  by  her  side  the  other  morning  and 
held  her  wasted  hand  in  mine  it  seemed  the 
most  natural  thing  in  the  world  to  send  a 
message  by  this  sweet  soul  to  the  unseen 
land,  and  we  almost  forgot  the  pain  of  part- 
ing in  the  bright  anticipation  of  the  many 
who  would  throng  to  meet  the  gray-headed 
voyager  when  at  last  her  sail  should  beat 
across  the  blue  waters  into  the  heavenly  har- 
bor. And  as  we  talked  there  came  a  mes- 
sage that  a  very  old  friend  had  called  to  see 
the  sufferer;  one  who  had  been  the  closest 
comrade  of  her  brilliant  youth  and  the  com- 


anfr      u**     249 


panion  of  her  maturer  years.  Slowly  the 
guest  entered  the  shrine  wherein  a  soul 
awaited  the  sacrament  of  death,  silently  she 
stretched  out  her  arms  and  gathered  that 
wasted  frame  within  their  close  embrace. 
As  a  mother  comforts  the  baby  at  her  breast, 
so  they  comforted  one  another  with  tender 
words.  The  years  of  their  life  fell  away 
from  them  as  petals  from  a  rose  which  the 
wind  lightly  rocks,  and  they  were  girls 
again.  "Oh,  my  dear  child,  how  sweet,  how 
brave,  how  grand  you  are!"  said  the  guest. 
"My  precious  girl,  my  poor,  dear  one,  how 
can  I  bear  to  see  you  here  !"  she  cried  again 
and  yet  again,  while  her  tears  fell  like  rain, 
and  the  turmoil  of  her  sobs  rent  her  very 
inmost  heart.  I  shall  live  long  before  I  see 
so  touching  a  sight  again.  In  the  presence 
of  a  love  so  perfect  and  so  true  I  felt  to  be 
almost  an  interloper  and  an  alien,  so  I  quiet- 
ly stole  away  and  left  these  two  old  women, 
bowed  with  the  weight  of  many  years,  sus- 
taining and  sustained  by  the  trust  that  the 
portals  of  the  tomb,  within  whose  shadows 
they  stood,  were  but  the  gates  that  usher  the 
soul  into  the  full  affluence  of  life  and  love. 


250       tjcrjgrenmvjj  cwfc 


It  is  almost  impossible  to  get  the  average 
young  person  past  the  florist's  window  now- 
adays. She  has  a  way  of  clasping  her  hands 
and  pursing  her  lips  over  the  roses  that 
would  make  the  average  young  man  shed  his 
last  dollar,  as  the  almond  tree  shakes  its 
blossoms.  I  am  always  sorry  for  a  poor 
young  man  in  love  with  a  pretty  girl.  He 
longs  to  buy  the  world  for  her  and  she  longs 
quite  as  ardently  to  receive  it  as  a  gift,  and 
so  he  is  hurrying  along  his  bankrupt  career 
until  matrimony  or  estrangement  checks 
him.  Have  you  not  a  pitying  remembrance 
in  your  own  heart  of  a  certain  youth  of  the 
long  ago  who  deluged  your  house  with 
roses,  confectionery  and  novels  until  his  sal- 
ary was  wildly  wasted  in  the  unequal  con- 
tests? Girls,  be  a  little  less  receptive,  as  it 
were;  be  just  a  bit  more  thoughtful  and  deli- 
cate in  your  orders  at  the  restaurant  and 
your  selection  from  the  florist's  window,  and 
I  think  your  matrimonial  chances  will  be 
the  better  for  it.  How  often  have  I  seen 
a  young  woman  order  a  costly  dinner  when 
some  young  man  whom  she  well  knew  to  be 
the  recipient  of  a  small  salary  was  to  foot 
the  bill,  yet  when  ordering  for  herself  I 
am  told  she  never  goes  higher  than  beans 


glue*     251 

and  bread  and  butter.  Now,  girls,  don't 
think  Amber  is  an  everlasting  old  grand- 
mother! Not  a  bit  of  it,  but  she  has  tossed 
about  the  world  so  much  and  heard  so  many 
"little  birds"  telling  their  secrets  that  she  has 
taken  unto  herself  quite  a  pack  of  knowledge 
of  the  ways  and  manners  of  mankind.  I 
positively  adore  a  young  girl,  and  always 
have,  and,  what  is  more,  expect  I  always 
shall.  But  admiring  and  loving  them  as  I 
do,  from  the  tip  of  their  bangs  to  the  click 
of  their  boot  heels,  I  cannot  bear  to  see  them 
do  unlovely  things.  I  want  to  see  them  help- 
ful, lovable,  sweet.  I  want  to  see  them  slow 
to  wound  another's  feelings,  and  quick  as 
sunshine  after  rain  with  tender  smiles  and 
womanly  ways.  I  want  to  see  them  brave, 
yet  gentle;  gay,  yet  kind;  fun-loving,  yet 
never  loud  and  rude.  I  want  to  hear  the 
young  men  in  speaking  of  them  speak  of 
something  besides  their  extravagance  and 
their  greed.  I  want  the  very  air  to  be  the 
sweeter  for  their  passing,  as  when  one  car- 
ries roses  through  a  room  their  fragrance 
lingers.  And  what  shall  make  you  sweet, 
dear  girls?  Not  fashionable  gowns  and 
dainty  clothing;  not  beauty  nor  grace  nor 
wealth  so  much  as  womanliness  and  unsel- 
fish thought  for  others. 


252     £to0£witxnr  ant* 


The  woman  who  can  wear  an  arctic  over- 
shoe over  a  No.  5  shoe  and  make  no  moan 
ought  to  have  been  born  a  Joan  of  Arc  or  a 
Charlotte  Corday.  She  is  made  of  the 
"dust"  that  heroines  have  a  corner  on.  At 
one  time  in  my  life  I  owned  a  dog — a  guile- 
less pup — whose  darling  aim  on  earth  was  to 
drag  my  colossal  arctics  before  admiring 
gentlemen  callers  and  lay  them  by  the  fire- 
side, where  they  overshadowed  the  big  base- 
burner  with  their  bulk.  I  was  rid  of  the 
dog  long  before  I  was  rid  of  the  feeling  that 
it  was  a  disgrace  for  a  woman  to  wear  the 
feet  God  gave  her.  The  most  colossal  over- 
shoe is  neither  so  big  nor  so  objectionable 
as  an  early  grave,  and  that  is  just  what  lies 
before  some  of  you  girls  if  you  don't  quit 
wearing  French  heels  and  going  about  in 
damp  and  chilly  weather  without  protection 
for  your  feet.  Burn  up  the  high-heeled  slip- 
pers, then,  with  their  atrocious  shape ;  culti- 
vate health  and  common-sense  rather  than 
the  empty  flattery  of  a  world  that  cares  noth- 
ing for  you.  So  shall  you  be  as  beautiful  as 
houris,  as  healthy  as  Hebes,  as  long  lived  as 


cwtr     u*,     253 


Sarahs  and  as  light-footed  as  the  shadow 
that  dances  to  a  wind-blown  Columbine. 


A  graveyard  never  saddens  me.  It  seems 
nothing  more  than  one  of  the  flies  behind 
the  scenes  when  the  actors  have  gone  on  in 
front.  What  matters  the  room  where  we 
doff  our  toggery  when  we  are  once  out  of 
it?  So,  not  long  since,  when  in  rambling 
about  one  of  the  Apostle  Islands,  away  up 
in  Lake  Superior  country,  I  ran  across  a 
sunshiny  little  graveyard,  and  I  was  glad 
to  loiter  about  for  an  hour  and  read  the 
inscriptions  on  the  age-worn  stones.  It 
was  a  blue  day — blue  in  the  sky  above  and 
blue  in  the  haze  on  the  hills,  blue  in  the 
sparkling  waters  of  the  lake  and  bluer  yet 
in  the  far  distance  that  marked  a  score  of 
miles  from  shore.  Before  the  gateway  of 
the  graveyard  a  clump  of  golden  rod  stood, 
like  an  angel  barring  the  way  with  a  sword 
of  light.  A  tangle  of  luxuriant  vines  had 
curtained  most  of  the  graves  from  sight. 
A  few,  more  carefully  tended  than  the  rest, 
stood  bravely  out  from  behind  fences  of 
ornamental  woodwork,  but  most  of  them 


254 

were  sheltered  and  peaceful  within  their  ne- 
glected bowers  of  green.  When  my  time 
comes  to  lie  down  in  my  narrow  home,  I 
pray  you,  kind  gentlefolks,  grant  me  the 
seclusion  of  an  unremembered  grave  rather 
than  the  accentuated  desolation  of  a  painted 
fence  and  a  padlocked  gate.  There  is  rest 
in  neglect,  and  nature,  if  left  alone,  will  nev- 
er allow  a  grave  to  grow  unsightly.  She 
folds  it  away  in  added  coverings  of  mossy 
green  from  year  to  year  as  a  mother  when 
the  nights  are  long  will  tuck  her  sleeping 
children  under  soft,  warm  blankets.  She 
appoints  her  choristers  from  the  leafy  belfry 
of  the  woods  to  keep  the  chimes  ringing 
when  the  days  are  long  and  slow  and  sweet, 
and  lights  her  tapers  nightly  in  the  wavering 
shimmer  of  the  stars.  In  a  secluded  corner 
we  found  a  handbreadth  space  where  a  baby 
was  laid  to  rest  many  a  year  ago.  No 
chronicle  of  the  little  life  remains,  and  yet  a 
stranger  stands  beside  its  grave  and  drops 
a  tear.  I  don't  know  why,  I'm  sure,  for  why 
should  we  cry  when  a  baby  dies?  So  roses 
are  picked  before  the  frost  finds  them! 
Another  stone  was  erected  to  a  young  bride 
who  died  at  twenty.  Looking  about  at  the 
stoop-shouldered,  care-lined  and  premature- 


cmfr     «*,     255 


ly  old  women  who  toiled  in  those  island 
homes,  we  could  not  feel  very  sorry  for  the 
young  bride  who  died,  perhaps,  while  life 
still  held  an  illusion.  With  lingering  step  at 
last  we  left  the  graveyard,  repassed  the  gold- 
en sentry  at  the  gate  and  sought  the  little 
boat  that  awaited  us  on  the  beautiful  bay. 
Long  after  other  details  of  that  pleasant  out- 
ing are  forgotten  the  memory  of  that  blue 
day  among  the  quiet  graves  on  the  island  of 
the  great  lake  shall  linger  like  a  song  within 
our  hearts. 


"If  I  had  two  loaves  of  bread,"  said  Ma- 
homet, "I  would  sell  one  of  them  and  buy 
white  hyacinths,  for  they  would  feed  my 
soul."  I  came  across  that  delightful  saying 
the  other  day,  and  I  thought  to  myself: 
There  is  another  one  to  be  hunted  up  when 
I  get  over  yonder!  I  shall  have  to  make 
the  acquaintance  of  a  man,  prophet  or  not, 
who  gave  utterance  to  such  a  sentiment  as 
that.  How  many  of  us,  poor  earthworms 
that  we  are,  would  rather  spend  our  dollar 
for  white  hyacinths  than  for  a  big  supper? 
How  many  of  us  ever  stop  to  think  that  there 


256 

is  something  under  the  sleek  rotundity  of 
our  girth  that  demands  food  quite  as  eager- 
ly as  our  stomach  does,  and  fails  and  faints 
and  dies  quite  as  surely  without  it?  Take 
less  of  the  food  that  goes  to  fatten  the  perish- 
able part  of  you,  and  give  more  sustenance 
to  that  inner  guest  who,  like  a  captive,  sits 
and  starves  with  long  and  cruel  neglect. 
Buy  fewer  glasses  of  beer  and  more  "white 
hyacinths."  Smoke  less  tobacco  and  invest 
in  a  few  sunsets  and  dawns.  Let  cheap 
shows  alone  and  go  hear  music  of  the  right 
sort.  So  shall  your  soul  lift  up  its  droop- 
ing head  and  grow  less  and  less  to  resem- 
ble one  of  Pharaoh's  lean  kine.  I  adore  a 
man  or  a  woman  who  has  enough  sentiment 
to  appreciate  what  dead  and  gone  Mahomet 
said,  and  hereafter  will  make  it  a  point 
to  buy  less  bread  and  more  hyacinths. 


I  wonder  if,  when  we  get  to  the  other 
world,  we  shall  not  occasionally  stroll  into 
some  sort  of  a  celestial  museum,  where  the 
relics  of  our  foregone  existence,  its  wasted 
days  and  misspent  years,  may  stare  back  at 
us  from  glass  cases  where  the  angels  have 


257 

ticketed  them  and  put  them  all  neatly  on  ex- 
hibition! There  will  be  necklaces  of  ill- 
spent  moments,  like  the  faded  brilliants  ex- 
humed from  old  Pompeii,  with  lots  of  brok- 
en hopes  and  thwarted  destinies.  There 
will  be  odd  little  freaks  and  unreasoning 
caprices,  like  the  "What  is  it?"  and  foolish 
deeds  of  daring  to  turn  our  pulses  faint  with 
the  old-time  terror.  There  will  be  those 
tendencies  which  kept  us  heavy-footed  like 
the  fat  woman,  and  others  that  made  us 
blind,  although  the  world  was  full  of  light. 
There  will  be  the  disloyal  deeds  that  made 
us  a  constant  source  of  care  and  wonder- 
ment to  the  angels  who  watched  us,  and 
the  cowardice  that  kept  us  in  leading  strings 
to  conformity.  There  will  be  shelves  full 
of  the  little  white  lies  we  have  told,  all  la- 
beled and  dated,  like  pebbles  from  the  Med- 
iterranean or  bits  of  shell  from  the  sea. 
There  will  be  fragments  of  blighted  lives 
ruined  by  wagging  tongues  and  shafts  of 
tea  table  gossip.  There  will  be  the  old-time 
masks  wherein  we  masqueraded,  and  the 
flimsy  veils  of  deceit  behind  which  we  hid 
our  individuality.  There  will  be  the  mem- 
ories of  little  children  we  might  have  kept 
had  we  been  wiser,  and  snatches  of  lullaby 

17 


258 

songs.  There  will  be  jars  full  of  love 
glances  and  pots  of  preserved  and  honeyed 
kisses.  There  will  be  whole  bales  of  mis- 
takes, a  Gobelin  tapestry  to  drape  the  world, 
and  stacks  of  dead  and  withered  "might- 
have-beens."  There  will  be  peacock  feath- 
ers of  pride  tied  together  with  faded  rib- 
bons of  regret,  and  whole  cabinets  full  of 
closet  skeletons  and  family  contentions. 
There  will  be  pedestals  whereon  shall  stand 
the  "white  days"  we  can  never  forget,  and 
panorama  chambers  wherein  shall  be  un- 
rolled the  pictured  scroll  of  our  journey 
heavenward.  In  cunningly  devised  music 
boxes  we  shall  hear  again  the  melody  of  our 
youthful  laughter  and  the  patter  of  life's  un- 
counted tears.  I  think  the  shelves  of  that 
celestial  museum  would  yield  some  odd  sur- 
prises to  the  most  of  us,  like  the  rinding  of 
a  bauble  we  counted  worthless  and  threw 
away  glittering  in  the  diadem  of  a  crown, 
or  the  prize  we  bartered  honor  for  turned 
to  worthless  glitter  and  tinsel  paste! 


There  is  no  use  sitting  here  by  this  win- 
dow any  longer  and  trying  to  believe  that 


j|ttt£,       259 

life  is  worth  living.  If  I  looked  for  five 
minutes  more  at  this  November  landscape  I 
should  shave  my  head  and  hie  me  to  a 
Carmelite  convent.  Dame  Nature  has  for- 
gotten her  housewifely  duties  and  gone  off 
to  gossip  with  the  good  ladies  who  have 
charge  of  the  other  planets.  Where  but  yes- 
terday the  late  asters  bloomed  in  long  rows 
of  splendor,  and  the  chrysanthemums 
fringed  the  sunny  borders  with  feathers  of 
white  and  gold,  the  unsightly  stalks  grovel 
in  the  clayey  mold,  and  the  frost-nipped 
vines  drop  their  dismantled  tendrils  in  the 
chilly  wind.  Fragments  of  old  china  lurk 
in  the  discovered  spaces  underneath  the  de- 
nuded lilac  bushes,  and  out  by  the  oleander 
tub  a  cruel  cat  is  worrying  a  large  and  dis- 
couraged rat.  That  oleander  tub  reminds 
me  an  ordeal  that  is  ushered  in  with  every 
change  of  season.  Twice  a  year  we  are 
compelled  to  carry  that  large  vegetable  in 
and  out  of  its  winter  lair.  About  the  last 
week  of  September  we  begin  to  wrap  it  in 
bed-quilts  every  night,  and  from  that  time 
on  until  late  autumn  no  delicate  babe  was 
ever  more  tenderly  guarded.  Then,  as 
there  is  no  man  in  the  country  who  for  love 
or  lucre  will  condescend  to  the  job,  we  begin 


260 

to  worry  the  Doctor.  We  tell  him  the 
oleander  will  be  blighted  by  the  frost,  and 
he  pays  no  heed.  Then  we  ask  him  if  he 
would  just  as  lief  bring  in  the  oleander  after 
supper.  He  sneaks  off  and  is  gone  until  the 
1 1  p.  m.  train.  Next  we  take  to  tears,  and 
declare  that  we  love  that  oleander  as  one 
of  the  family,  and  it  breaks  our  heart  to  see 
it  perish  for  want  of  care.  We  grow  pale 
and  wan  and  gray-headed  as  the  days  go  by, 
and  finally  with  flashing  eyes  and  muttered 
oaths  the  Doctor  yanks  the  tub  and  its  co- 
lossal growth  into  tbe  cellar,  and  we  rest 
on  our  arms  until  the  advent  of  another 
spring. 


Well,  the  summer  has  gathered  up  her 
corn-silk  draperies,  put  on  her  rose- 
trimmed  hat,  and  tripped  over  the  border 
land  at  last.  From  the  bend  in  the  road  that 
shall  hide  her  from  our  view  forever  she 
lingers  a  moment  to  throw  back  a  sunny 
glance  at  September,  as  he  comes  whistling 
down  the  lane,  with  plume  of  golden-rod 
in  his  hat.  A  glad  good-bye  to  you,  long- 
to-be-remembered  summer  of  1890!  We  are 


261 

so  glad  to  see  you  go  that  we  are  willing 
to  forego  your  blossoms  and  your  bird  songs 
to  be  well  rid  of  you.  For  three  long  months 
we  have  endured  heat  without  precedent, 
drought  and  discomfort,  flies  and  mosqui- 
tos,  threatened  thunder  gusts  and  devastat- 
ing cyclones,  and  we  are  so  tired  that  we 
feel  like  shaking  a  stick  at  you  now,  to  see 
you  lingering  to  coquet  with  September. 
Hasten  on,  oh  bright  autumn  weather,  with 
your  comfortable  nights  for  sleep,  and  your 
royal  days  of  sunshine  and  frost.  We  are 
longing  for  the  time  to  come  when  the 
lamps  shall  be  lighted  early  in  the  parlor, 
and  the  fire-glow  shall  once  more  shed  its 
giory  upon  grandma's  lovely  hair  and  upon 
the  gold  of  the  children's  restless  heads; 
when  the  cat  shall  have  leave  to  lie  on  the 
best  cushion,  and  the  voice  of  the  tea-kettle, 
droning  its  supper  monologue,  shall  alter- 
nate with  the  efforts  of  the  older  sister  at  the 
piano.  By  the  way,  do  you  know  there  is 
lots  of  solace  to  be  found  in  an  old  music 
book  of  twenty  years  ago?  Don't  tell  me 
that  the  music  of  to-day  is  as  sweet  all 
through  as  the  melodies  of  long  ago.  Who 
sings  such  soul-ravishing  duets  to-day  as 
"She  Bloomed  with  the  Roses/'  "Twilight 


262 

Dews,"  or  "Gently  Sighs  the  Breeze"?  I 
declare  to  you,  my  dear,  that  although  I 
shall  be  considerably  older  some  day  than 
I  am  now,  and  although  I  have  not  fallen 
so  far  into  the  "sere  and  yellow"  as  to  count 
myself  among  the  old-fashioned  and  the 
queer,  yet  any  one  of  those  songs  just  men- 
tioned will  start  the  tears  from  my  eyes  as 
showers  start  from  summer  clouds. 


Two  little  motherless  children!  Do  you 
know  the  thought  of  a  baby  without  a  moth- 
er to  cuddle  it  always  brings  the  tears  to  my 
eyes?  Traveling  to  distant  New  England 
with  a  father  who,  although  kind,  seemed 
some  way  unfitted  to  his  duties,  as  a  straight- 
legged  chair  might  if  used  for  a  lullaby 
rocker,  were  two  bits  of  folks,  a  boy  and  a 
girl,  one  four,  the  other  two  years  old.  The 
careful  father  brushed  their  hair  very  nicely 
and  washed  their  mites  of  faces  with  great 
regularity.  When  he  told  them  to  sit  still 
they  sat  still,  and  nobody  was  annoyed  by 
their  antics,  but,  oh,  how  it  made  my  heart 
ache  to  watch  the  motherless  chicks!  If 
mamma  had  been  there  they  would  have 


263 

climbed  all  over  her,  and  bothered  her  a 
good  deal,  perhaps,  with  their  clinging  arms 
and  kisses  (it's  a  way  babies  have  with  their 
mammas !),  but  in  the  presence  of  their  dark- 
eyed  and  quiet  papa  they  behaved  like  little 
weasels  in  the  presence  of  a  fox.  "Papa 
says  we  mustn't  talk  about  mamma  any 
more,"  lisped  the  boy.  "  'Cause  she's  gone 
to  heaven."  In  the  name  of  love,  whose 
apostle  I  humbly  claim  to  be,  I  longed  to 
gather  those  little  ones  in  my  arms  and  have 
a  dear,  sweet  talk  about  the  mamma  who 
had  left  them  for  a  little  while,  and  I  wanted 
to  say  to  the  proper  and  punctilious  papa: 
"Good  sir,  if  you  attempt  to  bring  up  these 
motherless  mites  without  the  demonstration 
of  love  you  will  meet  with  the  same  success 
your  gardener  would  should  he  set  out  roses 
in  a  pine  forest.  Children  need  love  as  flow- 
ers need  the  southerly  exposure  and  sun- 
shine. When  that  boy  of  yours  bumped 
his  head,  sir,  it  was  your  place  to  comfort 
him  in  something  the  way  his  dead  mother 
might  have  done,  rather  than  to  have  bade 
him  'sit  up  and  be  a  man.' " 


264     gu»*«mavtt  tmfc  fjjtra. 

SLEEP'S    SERENADE. 

In  cadence  far, 

From  star  to   star, 
Sleep's  mellow  horns  are  faintly  calling; 

Through  dreamland  halls 

Sweet  madrigals, 
In   liquid   numbers   drowsy   falling. 

Noiseless  and  still, 

O'er  star-watched  hill, 
Beneath  the  white  moon's  tender  glances, 

A  host  of  dreams, 

By  wind-blown  streams, 
March  on  with  gleam  of  silver  lances. 

A  captive  thou; 

Then,  yield  thee,  now, 
While  mellow  horns  are  nearer  calling; 

And  ringing  bells, 

And  poppy  spells, 
Thy  senses  all  in  sleep  enthralling. 

O,  hark ;  O,  hear, 

My  lady,  dear, 
O'er  woods  and  hills  and  streamlets  flying, 

The  winding  note 

Of  horns  remote, 
In  softest  echo  dying — dying. 


I  had  a  dream  the  other  night  which  was 
like,  and  yet  unlike,  the  vision  of  fair  women 


265 

of  which  a  poet  once  wrote.  I  dreamed  that 
I  sat  within  a  court-room.  Before  me  passed 
the  meanest  men  and  women  God  ever  per- 
mitted to  live,  and  upon  them  I  was  to  pass 
the  verdict  as  to  which  should  carry  off  the 
palm.  The  scandal-monger  came  first,  he 
or  she  who  sits  like  a  fly-catcher  on  a  tree, 
snapping  up  morsels  of  news.  He  or  she  who 
is  swelled  full  of  conjecture  whenever  any- 
body commits  an  innocent  indiscretion,  as 
an  owl  blinks  and  ruffles  up  its  feathers 
when  the  bobolink  sings.  He  or  she  who 
goes  about  the  world  like  a  lean  cat  after 
a  mouse.  He  or  she  who  is  always  looking 
for  clouds  in  a  bright  June  sky,  and  slugs  in 
roses  and  flies  in  honey.  He  or  she  whose 
heart  is  made  of  brass,  and  whose  soul  is 
so  small  it  will  take  eleven  cycles  of  eternity 
to  develop  it  to  the  dimension  of  a  hayseed. 
\  I  was  about  to  hand  this  specimen  the  ban- 
ner without  looking  further  when  a  being 
glided  by  me  with  a  noiseless  tread.  She 
wore  felt  shoes  and  a  mask.  She  spoke 
with  the  voice  of  a  canary,  yet  had  the  talons 
of  a  vulture.  She  wore  a  stomacher  made 
from  the  fleece  of  a  lamb,  and  between  her 
bright  red  lips  were  the  tusks  of  a  wolf.  I 
recognized  her  as  the  hypocrite,  the  false 


266 


friend;  she  who  hands  over  your  living 
bones  for  your  enemies  to  pick,  while  you 
believe  she  is  your  champion  and  your  de- 
fender. Following  her  came  the  man  who 
keeps  his  horse  standing  all  day  with  its  nose 
in  a  nosebag.  There  was  a  groan  like  the 
sighing  of  wind  in  the  poplars  as  he  went  by. 
Then  came  the  merciless  man  who  oppresses 
and  torments  the  helpless  and  grinds  the 
faces  of  the  poor;  and  following  him  I  be- 
held yet  another  monster  —  the  worst  of  all 
in  male  attire.  He  came  sneaking  around 
a  corner,  with  a  smile  on  his  lips  and  a  devil 
in  his  eye,  seeking  to  entrap  innocent  girl- 
hood and  unsuspecting  womanhood.  Then 
came  the  woman  who  gives  her  children  to 
the  care  of  servants  while  she  goes  down- 
town with  a  dog  in  her  arms.  Then  came  a 
lean-faced,  weasel-eyed  creature  with  the 
general  expression  of  a  sneak  thief.  I  dis- 
covered her  to  be  the  representative  of  that 
type  of  women  who  coaxes  her  neighbor's 
hired  girl  away  with  promises  of  better 
wages.  Then  came  the  envious  person 
whose  evil  passions  are  kindled  like  the  fires 
of  sheol  at  the  prosperity  of  others,  and  who, 
because  his  own  cup  of  life  holds  vinegar,  is 
determined  no  other  shall  contain  wine.  I 


267 

suddenly  awoke  without  having  bestowed 
the  palm  on  any.  Perhaps  some  of  my  read- 
ers may  find  it  easy  to  do  that  for  themselves. 


Do  you  know  which,  of  all  the  sights  that 
confronted  me  yesterday  in  my  rambles 
through  the  rainy  weather,  I  pigeon-holed 
as  the  saddest?  Not  the  little  white  cas- 
ket, gleaming  like  the  petal  of  a  fallen  flower, 
through  the  undertaker's  rain-streaked  win- 
dow; not  the  woman  with  the  lack-luster 
eye  and  the  flippety-floppety  petticoats  who 
went  by  me  in  the  rain  silently  cursing  her 
bundles  and  the  fact  that  she  was  not  three- 
handed  ;  not  the  poor  old  cab  horse  with  his 
nose  in  a  wet  bag,  and  his  stomach  so  tightly 
buckled  in  that  he  couldn't  breathe  below  the 
fifth  rib;  not  the  man  out  of  a  job,  with  his 
gloveless  hands  in  his  pockets,  trying  to 
solve  the  problem  of  supper;  not  the  little 
child  under  convoy  of  a  stern  and  relentless 
dragon  who  yanked  it  over  the  crossings  by 
the  arm  socket;  not  the  starved  and  abso- 
lutely hopeless  yellow  dog,  who  sat  in  a 
doorway  and  wondered  to  himself  if  there 
was  indeed  a  canine  life  that  included  occa- 


268 

sional  bones  and  no  kicks;  no,  not  any  of 
these  impressed  me  as  the  most  gruesome  of 
a  great  city's  many  sights.  As  I  passed  the 
corner  of  Washington  and  Dearborn  streets 
I  came  face  to  face  with  a  red-cheeked, 
wholesome  boy  of  barely  twenty  years  of 
age.  He  was  leaning  upon  the  arm  of  an 
elderly  man,  and  at  first  I  thought  him  ill, 
but  it  took  but  a  second  glance  to  see  that 
he  was  drunk.  Now,  I  consider  that  the 
very  saddest  sight  a  great  city  has  to  offer. 
When  the  old  men  are  wicked  there  is  some 
comfort  in  the  thought  that  their  day  is 
nearly  spent,  and  their  worthless  places  may 
be  soon  filled  with  a  nobler  and  a  better 
stock,  but  a  drunken  and  dissolute  boy 
means  just  what  it  means  for  the  fruit  har- 
vest when  the  blight  gets  into  the  blossom. 
The  gathered  apple  that  rots  in  the  bin  is 
bad  enough,  but  the  worm  that  destroys  the 
fruit  in  the  germ  makes  greater  loss.  Be 
thankful  that  the  grave  has  taken  to  its  pro- 
tecting shelter  the  boy  you  loved  so  dearly, 
and  of  whom  you  were  so  proud,  rather  than 
that  he  should  have  grown  to  be  a  drunkard 
before  his  twentieth  birthday. 


269 

We  are  each  of  us  missing  constant 
chances  to  bestow  a  kindness  upon  some 
needy  soul  for  the  reason  that  we  dread 
being  imposed  upon  by  a  case  of  causeless 
complaining.  Is  it  worth  while  to  keep  our 
hearts  stolid  merely  because  we  may  be 
cheated  in  the  bestowal  of  a  nickel's  worth 
of  alms?  I  think  not  You  looked  up 
from  your  work  a  few  minutes  ago  and  saw 
a  little  boy  not  much  bigger  than  your 
thumb  looking  through  the  open  doorway. 
He  began  at  once  a  sing-song  tale  of  woe 
about  a  sick  mother  and  a  father  out  of 
work — or  in  his  grave,  it  doesn't  much 
matter.  At  the  same  time  he  held  out 
a  paper  of  cheap  pins  to  tempt  a  nickel  from 
your  store. 

"I  have  no  time  to  bother  with  such  as 
you,"  you  said,  and  turned  your  eyes  back 
to  your  ledger.  But  still  the  boy  droned  on. 
You  looked  at  him  again  and  noticed  that 
the  small  hand  that  held  the  pins  was  well 
kept  and  very,  very  thin.  Then  your  eyes 
followed  the  diminutive  form  down  to  the 
feet;  they,  too,  showed  signs  of  somebody's 
care,  although  the  shoes  were  shabby  and 
the  stockings  thin. 

"He  is  not  an  ordinary  little  beggar,"  you 


270 

said  to  yourself.  And  then  your  gaze  trav- 
eled upward  again  until  it  met  his  long- 
lashed  Irish  eyes,  so  full  of  trouble  and  of 
entreaty  that  they  looked  like  twin  Killar- 
ney  lakes  getting  ready  for  rain. 

"Poor  little  chap,"  you  said,  "of  course  I'll 
buy  a  paper  of  pins,"  and  in  so  doing  you 
stooped  over  and  patted  his  head,  perhaps, 
or  called  him  "dear,"  so  that  he  went  away 
with  the  twin  Killarney  lakes  all  ready  for 
a  sunburst  to  follow  the  rain.  That  was  an 
opportunity  you  nearly  missed,  but  it 
brought  a  blessing  sweeter  than  a  Crawford 
peach.  You  didn't  want  the  pins,  but  the 
little  desolate  heart  wanted  the  kind  word 
bestowed  along  with  your  nickel,  and  per- 
haps its  bestowal  shall  be  an  impulse  to- 
ward the  light  to  a  soul  that  cross  words 
and  constant  refusals  had  already  given  a 
downward  trend. 


There  stands  a  very  young  girl  at  the 
door  of  a  drug  store.  She  hesitates  a  mo- 
ment and  enters.  "May  I  sit  here  and  wait 
for  a  friend?"  she  inquires  of  the  dapper 
clerk.  "Certainly,"  he  answers,  and  places 
a  chair  for  her  near  the  window. 


271 

That  girl's  father  told  her  last  night  to 
have  nothing  more  to  do  with  young  Solo- 
mon Levi.  "He  is  a  worthless  fellow,"  said 
he,  "and  I  have  forbidden  him  the  house." 
"Very  well,"  said  she,  and  this  morning  she 
has  made  the  excuse  to  go  to  the  grocery 
for  yeast,  and  is  waiting  here  for  the  grace- 
less Solomon.  By  and  by  he  will  come,  and 
she  will  listen  to  him  and  form  plans  for 
clandestine  meetings.  My  dear,  there  is 
a  stairway  whose  top  lies  in  the  sunshine, 
but  whose  lower  steps  lead  down  to  endless 
shadow.  Your  pretty  foot  is  poising  on  the 
upper  stair — beware!  And  yet  I  think  the 
father  has  been  to  blame  also.  These  stern, 
non-explanatory  parents  are  responsible  for 
much  of  the  ruin  wrought  in  young  people's 
lives.  If  the  old  rat  would  go  with  the  young 
one  now  and  then  to  investigate  the  smell  of 
cheese,  his  restraining  presence  would  do 
more  good  than  all  the  warnings  and  threats 
beforehand.  Temptations  are  bound  to  be- 
siege the  girls  and  bewilder  the  boys.  Don't 
let  us  make  a  pit-fire  out  of  moonshine  and 
forbid  every  bit  of  innocent  fun  and  frolic 
because  there  is  a  gayety  that  takes  hold  on 
death.  Give  the  young  folks  a  little  more 
license,  mingle  with  them  in  many  amuse- 


272 

ments  which  you  have  been  wont  to  frown 
upon,  do  not  be  so  frightened  if  their  light 
feet  go  dancing  off  the  path  now  and  then, 
and  ten  to  one  the  end  of  the  journey  will  be 
Beulah  Land  and  peace.  A  good  deal  less 
faultfinding  and  a  good  deal  more  sympathy 
would  be  better  all  around. 


There  is  no  lot  on  earth  so  hard  to  bear 
as  the  lot  of  wedlock  where  love  has  failed. 
The  slave's  life  is  not  comparable  to  it,  for 
the  manacles  that  only  bind  the  hands  may 
be  laid  aside,  but  those  that  fetter  the  heart 
not  death  itself  holds  the  key  to  loosen.  It 
fairly  makes  me  tremble  when  I  see  the 
thoughtless  rush  young  people  make  to  en- 
ter what  is  by  far  the  most  solemn  and  re- 
sponsible relation  of  life.  They  are  like 
mariners  who  put  to  sea  in  flimsy  boats,  or 
like  explorers  who  fit  themselves  with  Prince 
Albert  suits  and  buttonhole  bouquets.  Be- 
fore you  get  through  the  voyage,  my  dears, 
you  will  encounter  tempests  as  well  as  bon- 
nie  blue  weather,  and  God  pity  you  when 
your  pleasure  craft  strikes  the  first  billow, 
if  it  was  made  of  caprice  and  put  together 


273 

with  mucilage  instead  of  rivets !  As  for  the 
explorer  and  his  dress  suit,  where  will  he 
be  when  the  tigers  begin  to  scent  him  and 
the  air  is  full  of  great  sorrows  and  little 
frets  like  flying  buzzards  and  cawing  crows? 
Be  an  old  maid  in  its  most  despised  sig- 
nificance then;  be  a  grubber  and  a  toiler  all 
the  days  of  your  life  rather  than  rush  into 
marriage  as  a  hunted  fox  flies  into  a  trap. 
There  is  some  chance  for  the  fox  that  flies 
to  the  hills,  and  for  the  bird  that  soars  above 
the  huntsman's  aim,  but  what  better  off  is 
the  fox  in  the  trap  or  the  lark  in  a  cage? 
There  is  a  love  so  pure  and  ennobling  that 
eternity  shall  not  be  long  enough  to  cast  its 
blossom,  nor  death  sharp  enough  to  loosen 
the  foundation  of  its  hold.  Such  love  is  born 
in  the  spirit  rather  than  forced  in  the  hot- 
house of  the  senses.  It  is  an  impulse  toward 
the  stars,  a  striving  toward  things  that  are 
pure  and  perfect  and  true.  It  grows  in  the 
heart  as  a  rose  grows  in  the  garden,  first  a 
slip,  then  a  leaf  and  finally  the  perfect  blos- 
som. No  rose  ever  put  forth  a  flower  first, 
and  then  bethought  itself  of  rooting  and 
budding.  Pray,  dear  girls,  that  this  love 
may  come  to  you  rather  than  its  poor  proto- 
type, so  current  in  a  world  of  shams  and 

18 


274 

pretenses,  whose  luster  corrodes  with  daily 
usage  and  turns  to  pewter  in  your  grasp. 


Once  there  was  an  old  woman  who  died 
and  went  to  glory.  Now  a  great  many  old 
women  have  died  and  gone  the  same  way, 
but  this  one  was  very  tired  and  very  glad  to 
go.  She  had  worked  hard  ever  since  she 
could  handle  a  broom  or  flirt  a  duster. 
She  had  probably  washed  about  91,956,045 
dishes  in  her  life,  had  baked  something  less 
than  a  million  of  pies,  and  turned  out  any- 
where between  a  quarter  to  half  a  million 
loaves  of  bread,  to  say  nothing  of  biscuits. 
These  figures  are  steep,  but  I  am  writing 
under  the  invigorating  impulse  of  the  grip ! 
She  had  darned  socks  and  hemmed  towels 
and  patched  old  pantaloon-seats  between 
times,  until  her  fingers  were  callous  as  agate. 
She  had  borne  and  reared  lots  of  children 
and  tended  to  their  myriad  wants. 
For  forty-seven  years  she  had  done  a  big 
washing  every  week,  and  laundried  more 
collars  than  a  Canada  thistle  has  seed-pods. 
At  last  she  died.  The  tired  old  body  burst 
its  withered  husk  and  let  the  flower  free.  The 


cmfr     w**     275 


rusty,  old  cage  flew  open  and  out  went  the 
bird.  And  when  they  buried  her  I  suppose 
they  were  foolish  enough  to  shed  tears  and 
put  on  mourning!  As  well  expect  all  the 
birds  to  wear  crape  when  dawn  sets  out  its 
primrose-pot  on  the  ledge  of  the  eastern  sky! 
But  one  friend  of  quicker  perception  than 
the  rest,  I  am  told,  placed  the  following  in- 
scription on  the  tired  old  woman's  grave- 
stone : 

Here  lies  a  poor  woman  who  always  was  tired, 
For  she  lived  in  a  world  where  much  was  re- 

quired. 
"Weep  not  for  me,  friends,"  she  said,  "for  I'm 

going 
Where  there'll  be  neither  washing,  nor  baking, 

nor  sewing; 

Then  weep  not  for  me;  if  death  must  us  eever, 
Rejoice  that  I'm  going  to  do  nothing  forever." 


There  is  just  one  thing  in  the  latter  part  of 
the  nineteenth  century  that  never  fails  to 
bring  success,  and  that  is  assurance.  If  you 
are  going  to  make  yourself  known  it  is  no 
longer  the  thing  to  quietly  pass  out  a  visit- 
ing card — you  must  advance  with  a  trumpet 
and  blow  a  brazen  blast  to  shake  the  stars. 


276 

The  time  has  gone  by  when  self-advance- 
ment can  be  gained  by  modest  and  unassum- 
ing methods.  To  stand  with  a  lifted  hat  and 
solicit  a  hearing  savors  of  mendicancy  and 
an  humble  spirit.  The  easily  abashed  and 
the  diffident  may  starve  in  a  garret,  or  go 
die  on  the  highways — there  is  no  chance  for 
them  in  the  jostling  rush  of  life.  The  gilded 
circus  chariot,  with  a  full  brass  band  and  a 
plump  goddess  distributing  circulars,  is 
what  takes  the  popular  heart  by  storm. 
Your  silent  entry  into  town,  depending  upon 
the  merits  of  your  wares  to  gain  an  audience 
or  work  up  a  custom,  is  chimerical  and  ob- 
solete. We  no  longer  sit  in  the  shadow  and 
play  flutes;  we  mount  a  pine  platform  and 
blow  on  a  trombone,  and  in  that  way  we 
draw  a  crowd,  and  that  is  what  we  live  for. 
Who  are  the  women  who  succeed  in  business 
ventures  of  any  sort?  Mostly  the  mannish, 
bold,  aggressive  amazons  who  are  unmind- 
ful of  rebuffs  and  impervious  to  contempt. 
Who  are  the  men  who  wear  diamonds  and 
live  easy  lives?  Largely  the  politicians  who 
have  made  their  reputation  in  bar-room  ros- 
trums and  among  sharpers.  Oh,  for  a 
wind  to  blow  us  forward  a  hundred  years 
out  of  this  age  of  sordid  self-seeking  and 


277 


impudent  assertiveness  into  something  larg- 
er and  sweeter  and  finer.  Give  us  less  yeast 
in  our  bread  and  more  substance;  fill  our 
cups  with  wine  rather  than  froth,  and  for 
sweet  pity's  sake  hang"  up  the  great  Ameri- 
can trumpet  and  let  "silence,  like  a  poultice, 
come  to  heal  the  blows  of  sound." 


Every  day,  for  months,  as  I  have  taken 
my  morning  ride  to  town  I  have  noticed  a 
dog  who  bounds  forth  from  a  dooryard  that 
overlooks  the  busy  highway  of  the  steed  of 
steam  and  barks  himself  weak  at  the  rush- 
ing trains.  He  really  accomplishes  nothing, 
but  do  you  suppose  you  could  convince  his 
canine  brain  that  he  was  not  at  once  a  re- 
proach and  a  terror  to  the  numerous  trains 
that  disturb  his  rest?  He  reminds  me  of 
certain  people  we  meet  all  the  way  through 
life.  They  bark  at  trains  continually  while 
the  Lord  prolongs  their  breath,  and  the 
faster  the  train  and  the  more  it  carries  the 
louder  they  bark.  They  fondly  imagine 
that  the  voice  of  their  ranting  protest  accom- 
plishes a  purpose  in  the  world.  They  are 
always  barking  at  capital  and  at  rich  men 


278 

and  at  corporations.  They  bark  at  people 
of  courteous  manners,  and  all  the  ways  and 
customs  of  polite  and  gentle  society,  with 
fierce  and  futile  yelpings.  They  bark  at 
the  swift  advancement  of  the  world  from  ig- 
norance to  enlightenment,  from  superstition 
to  liberalism.  They  bark  at  the  churches 
because  they  are  on  a  train  that  has  side- 
tracked Calvin.  They  bark  at  polite  young 
men  who  wear  clean  linen,  and  call  them 
dudes;  they  bark  at  women  who  have  one 
or  two  ideas  outside  of  fashionable  folly  and 
inane  conventionalism,  and  call  them 
cranks;  they  bark  at  everything  on  wheels, 
where  wheels  typify  strength  and  achieve- 
ment. They  will  go  on  barking,  too,  while 
the  world  finds  room  and  maintains  patience 
for  them  and  their  barking. 


I  think  I  have  said  before  that  I  loathe 
meek  people.  But  even  if  I  have  I  am  going 
to  say  it  again.  Your  half-wits  who  sit  and 
turn  first  one  cheek  and  then  the  other  to  be 
slapped  are  not  the  sort  for  me.  The  man 
or  woman,  boy  or  girl,  child  or  otherwise, 
that  will  endure  direct  insult  day  after  day 


279 

without  resenting  it  ought  to  sell  themselves 
at  so  much  a  pint  for  illuminating  oil — that 
is  all  they  are  good  for.  I  love  a  fighter,  pro- 
vided he  foils  gracefully  and  does  not  snatch 
out  his  sword  in  every  brawling  and  un- 
worthy cause.  In  the  defense  of  woman,  in 
the  cause  of  honor,  purity  and  truth ;  in  bat- 
tle against  sordidness,  and  greed,  and  a 
lying  tongue,  let  your  blade  flash  like  sum- 
mer rain  and  your  white  plume  outdistance 
the  plume  of  Navarre!  For  God  and  moth- 
er, justice  and  honor,  self-respect  and  the 
approval  of  our  own  conscience,  let  us  go 
forward  then  with  a  chip,  if  need  be,  on 
each  shoulder  and  a  standard  copy  of  the 
celestial  army  tactics  in  our  side  pocket! 
The  Lord  loves  a  good  many  things,  cheer- 
ful givers  and  self-sacrificing  widows  with 
their  mites,  merciful  men  and  sweet  arid 
noble  women,  but  most  of  all,  I  think,  he 
loves  a  valiant  fighter  in  the  cause  of  right. 


Now  it  came  to  pass  that  there  dwelt  in 
a  certain  city  of  the  land  of  the  great  lakes 
a  woman  called  Lydia,  sister  to  Simon,  the 
shipwright.  And  Lydia,  being  comely  and 


280        j0#£mc*ri8  cmfc 


fair  to  look  upon,  was  sought  in  marriage 
by  one  John,  a  dealer  in  spices  and  fine  teas. 
And  the  years  of  their  wedlock  having  out- 
numbered the  fingers  upon  a  man's  two 
hands,  it  came  to  pass  that  they  dwelt  to- 
gether in  exceeding  prosperity  in  a  town 
near  by  the  blue  waters  of  a  mighty  lake. 

And  Heaven  sent  unto  them  children  to 
the  number  of  three,  so  that  their  hearts 
were  exceeding  glad,  and  the  cords  of  their 
habitation  were  stretched  from  year  to  year. 
And  it  came  to  pass  that  the  home  in  which 
they  lived  was  spacious  and  full  of  salubri- 
ous air.  Their  beds,  also,  were  of  curled  hair, 
and  all  their  bed-springs  of  beaten  steel. 
And  bath-rooms  made  glad  the  heart  of  the 
dust-laden  when  summer  dwelt  in  the  land. 
Also  there  were  cunningly  devised  screens 
of  fine  wire  in  all  the  windows,  so  that  the 
marauding  fly  and  the  pestilential  mosquito 
might  not  enter. 

And  the  flesh  increased  from  year  to  year 
upon  the  bones  of  Lydia  and  the  children 
that  heaven  sent  her,  while  they  remained  in 
the  home  that  John,  the  tea  merchant,  had 
given  them. 

But  it  came  to  pass  that  the  neighbors  of 
the  woman  Lydia  closed  up  the  shutters  of 


their  dwellings,  and  one  by  one  stole  from 
town  when  the  heat  descended  upon  the 
land. 

Then  spake  Lydia  unto  John,  the  vender 
of  spices  and  fine  teas,  saying: 

"Arise,  let  us  go  hence  and  dwell  within 
a  farm-house,  where  the  children  may  leap 
together  in  the  sweet-smelling  hay,  and  I 
may  comfort  myself  with  flagons  of  cream." 

But  John,  being  a  man  among  men,  and 
accounted  somewhat  wise  withal,  would 
have  restrained  Lydia,  saying:  "Not  so;  for 
verily  I  say  unto  you,  comfort  abideth  not 
in  the  dwelling  of  the  farmer,  neither  does 
joy  linger  in  the  shadow  of  his  doorway." 

Now  Lydia,  being  president  of  a  Wom- 
an's Club  and  reputed  of  knowledge  beyond 
the  generality  of  womankind,  would  not 
listen,  but  beat  her  hands  together,  crying: 
"I  prithee  hold  thy  peace,  for  behold,  I  and 
the  children  heaven  sent  me  will  depart 
hence  by  to-morrow's  chariot  of  steam,  and 
will  make  our  home  with  the  gentle  farmer 
and  his  sweet-breathed  kine." 

So  John,  being  loth  to  war  with  the 
tongue,  albeit  he  was  heavy-hearted  and 
walked  with  a  bent  head,  purchased  tickets 
for  Lydia  and  the  children  heaven  had  giv- 
en her. 


282 

And  it  came  to  pass  that  they  left  town  by 
the  train  which  men  call  "the  limited." 

Now  the  way  of  that  train  through  the 
land  is  like  unto  the  way  of  a  ship  at  sea, 
or  of  a  strong  eagle  that  never  wearieth. 
And  the  sufferings  of  Lydia  were  such  that 
she  sought  relief  in  peppermint  and  found 
it  not. 

And  the  babes  by  reason  of  the  swift- 
ness with  which  they  traversed  a  crooked 
land,  were  made  ill  and  languished  like 
sea-sick  rangers  of  the  deep. 

Yet,  after  many  hours,  their  torment 
abated  not,  so  that,  reaching  their  desti- 
nation, the  bodies  of  Lydia  and  her  chil- 
dren were  removed  in  a  hack  and  hurried 
to  an  inn  that  was  built  near  by. 

And  in  the  inn  where  they  were  fain  to 
tarry  until  strength  should  be  given  them 
for  further  journeying,  it  chanced  that  a 
young  babe  lay  sorely  stricken  with  the 
whooping-cough. 

Now,  when  Lydia  knew  this,  her  heart 
fainted  with  fear,  and  she  prophesied  evil. 

For  well  she  knew  that  her  own  babes 
had  not  had  the  disease,  and  that  the  time 
of  their  prostration  was  at  hand. 

So  Lydia,  being  president  of  a  Woman's 


283 

Club,  and  accounted  without  a  peer  in  the 
gift  of  words,  sent  for  the  keeper  of  the 
inn,  that  she  might  rebuke  him. 

And  she  opened  her  mouth  impulsively 
and  questioned  him  saying:  "Why  brought- 
est  thou  me  and  the  children  heaven  gave 
me  into  thine  inn  knowing  that  contagious 
disease  lurked  within  its  gates?" 

And  the  keeper  of  the  inn  shot  out  the 
lip  at  her  and  was  undismayed. 

And  he  cried,  "Go  to!  And  what  wouldst 
thou  of  a  public  house?  Thou  talkest  like 
one  with  little  sense!" 

And  it  came  to  pass  that  Lydia  and  her 
children  departed  thence  by  stage  and 
sought  the  farm-house.  And,  arriving  there, 
they  would  have  laid  themselves  down  to 
rest,  being  sorely  bruised  by  reason  of  pro- 
tracted stage-riding. 

But  the  beds  were  made  of  straw  and 
corded  underneath  with  ropes.  So  that 
lying  upon  them  caused  the  children  to  roar 
loudly,  and  they  found  rest  from  their  lam- 
entations, four  in  a  bed,  on  the  bosom  of 
Lydia. 

And,  supper  being  served,  it  consisted  of 
tinted  warm  water  and  gooseberries  sweet- 
ened with  brown  sugar. 


284 


Now  Lydia,  by  reason  of  her  connection 
with  the  club,  was  enabled  to  speak  boldly, 
and  she  called  for  cream. 

But  the  wife  of  the  farmer  made  answer, 
saying,  "We  have  none." 

And  Lydia  spoke  yet  again,  saying, 
"Why,  O  woman  of  many  wiles,  hast  thou 
no  cream?" 

And  the  woman  made  way  with  an  in- 
sect that  swam  gaily  in  a  pitcher  of  azure 
milk,  and  said  gently,  "Because  we  sell  it 
to  a  neighboring  dairy." 

And  Lydia  said  nothing,  but  remember- 
ing the  words  of  John,  the  tea-merchant, 
wept  silently. 

And  it  came  to  pass  that  next  morning 
the  children  went  forth  to  leap  in  the  hay. 

And  the  farmer  led  them  firmly  away 
from  the  hay-mow  by  the  tip  of  the  ear, 
saying,  "I  allow  no  children  to  spoil  my 
fodder." 

And  the  morning  of  the  second  day,  the 
woman  Lydia,  being  starved  for  nutritious 
food,  wended  her  way  with  her  babes  across 
a  stretch  of  pasture  land  in  search  of  wild 
blackberries. 

And  a  beast,  whose  voice  was  baritone 
and  whose  approach  was  like  the  approach 


285 

of  a  Kansas  cyclone,  bore  down  upon  her 
and  the  children  heaven  had  given  her, 
while  yet  they  were  midway  in  the  meadow. 
Now  only  by  leaping  could  they  save  them- 
selves. 

And  it  came  to  pass  that  they  leaped 
mightily  and  flung  themselves  over  a  five- 
barred  fence. 

And  a  snake  made  free  with  the  draperies 
of  Lydia,  so  that  her  hair  whitened  with 
fear,  and  between  the  beast  with  the  bari- 
tone voice  and  the  serpent  she  knew  not 
which  way  to  turn. 

And  the  morning  of  the  third  day  she 
wrote  to  John,  the  tea-merchant,  saying 
only: 

"My  darling — Meet  the  first  train  that  re- 
turns from  this  place  to  the  dear  city  by  the 
lake,  for  behold !  I  and  the  children  heaven 
sent  me  are  on  our  homeward  way !" 


IMPATIENCE. 

A  sweet  little  crocus  came  up  through  the  mold, 
And  hugged  round  her  shoulders  her  mantle  of 

gold, 

While  tears  of  distress  fringed  her  delicate  eye, 
Like  rain  drops  that  start  from  a  showery  sky. 


286 


"Where,  pray,  are  those  laggards,  the  violets 

blue? 

The  roses  and  lilies  and  daffodils  too? 
I  really  think  it'e  a  shame  and  a  sin 
This  waiting  so  long  for  the  spring  to  begin. 

"The  first  day  of  April  and  only  one  bird 
Since  I  lifted  my  head  has  uttered  a  word! 
And  search  as  I  may  all  over  the  meadow 
Not  even  a  cowslip  has  shown  its  bright  head,  O- 

"Misery  me!    Sure  there's  no  use  in  waiting, 
For  something,  no  doubt,  is  the  summer  belating; 
So  I'll  go  back  to  bed,  put  on  my  lace  night  cap, 
And  snatch,  for  a  fortnight,  a  nice  little  cat- 
nap!" 

Down  went  little  Gold-head,  back  to  her  pillow; 
When,  all  in  a  twinkling,  up  over  the  hill,  O, 
The  wind-flower  host,  with  rose-tinted  banners, 
Marched  into  the  world;  Queen  Summer's  fore- 
runners. 

Her  rose  maids  of  honor,  in  filmiest  laces, 
Loitered  and  lingered  in  shy  woodland  places; 
And  white-vested  liliee  were  ever  at  prayer; 
Their  vespers,  the  perfume  that  sweetened  the 
air. 

The  apple  trees  blushed  into  delicate  splendor; 
Theblue  birds  hung  over  in  ecstasy  tender, 
While  the  gold  powdered  bee  with  helmet  all 

dusty 
Kept  watch  over  the  flowers,  a  sentinel  trusty. 


287 

The  robin  sang  love  to  his  shy  little  sweetheart; 
The  orioles  lashed  their  nests  in  the  tree  top; 
The    willows   drooped    low    over    swift    water 

courses, 
And  murmuring  brooks  started  fresh  from  their 

sources. 

But  down  in  the  gloom,  on  her  dream-haunted 

pillow, 

As  pale  and  as  cold  as  the  moon  on  the  billow, 
Forgot  and  unmissed  by  bird  and  by  blossom, 
The  crocus  slept  sound  in  the  earth's  faithful 

bosom. 

When  at  last  she  awoke,  the  spring  had  been 

banished, 
Her  forerunner  flowers  from  the  hillside  had 

vanished. 

And  all  of  the  bees  had  turned  into  stock  brokers. , 
And  even  the  birds  had  changed  into  croakers. 

'Tis  only  by  waiting  we  find  our  fruition; 
To  learn  how  to  wait  is  a  needed  tuition. 
The  faint-hearted  people  who  go  to  sleep  fretting, 
Will  wake  up  at  last  too  late  for  the  getting. 


If  there  is  anything  more  utterly  deso- 
late than  a  poorly-conducted  farm,  preserve 
me  from  it.  There  is  an  ideal  farm  familiar 
to  the  writers  of  pretty  tales,  where  every- 


288 


thing  is  kept  in  apple-pie  order  throughout 
the  year,  and  where  one  can  walk  broadcast, 
so  to  speak,  in  a  spick  and  span  white  gown 
without  attracting  so  much  as  the  shadow  of 
a  shade  of  minutest  defilement.  We  have 
seen  pictures  of  such  farms  wherein  sleek 
cattle  stood  around  knee-deep  in  dewy 
clover,  or  lay  serenely  on  polished  hillsides, 
or  meandered  dreamily  by  crystal  streams  ; 
wherein  pale  pink  farm-houses  with  green 
gables  and  yellow  piazzas,  fairly  scintillated 
from  behind  decorous  foliage,  and  peacocks, 
with  tails  nearly  as  long  as  the  Mississippi 
River,  posed  on  the  gate-posts;  wherein 
neat  little  boys  in  variegated  trousers  rode 
prancing  chargers  down  blooming  lanes, 
and  correct  little  girls  in  ruffled  undercloth- 
ing fed  well-mannered  chickens  from  morn- 
ing till  night.  But  the  actual  farm  of  the 
remote  rural  districts  is  about  as  much  like 
its  ideal  picture  as  Esau  was  like  a  modern 
dude.  Not  long  ago  somebody  suggested 
that  I  go  and  board  for  a  fortnight  at  a  farm- 
house. "You  will  have  perfect  rest,"  said 
my  friend,  "and  that  is  what  you  need."  So 
I  went,  and  rather  than  again  undergo  the 
torments  of  the  five  days  spent  in  that  rest- 
ful (?)  spot  I  think  I  would  cheerfully  hire 


289 


out  with  a  Siberian  chain-gang.  In  the 
first  place  there  was  no  such  a  thing  as  rest 
possible  after  the  first  glimmer  of  each  day's 
dawn.  Every  rooster  on  the  farm,  and  there 
were  millions  of  them,  was  up  "for  keeps" 
long  before  sunrise.  Their  united  chorus 
smote  the  skies.  One  might  as  well  have 
tried  to  sleep  through  Gettysburg's  battle. 
A  score  or  so  of  bereaved  cows  lamented 
all  night  for  their  murdered  babies,  and  a 
couple  of  donkeys,  kept  purely  for  orna- 
mental purposes,  made  sounds  every  half 
hour  or  so  that  turned  my  hair  snow  white 
with  terror.  After  breakfast  each  day  I  used 
to  walk  down  the  hill  and  fish  for  pickerel 
in  a  river  that  had  no  current,  and  looked 
discouraged.  "Walked,"  did  I  say?  Nay, 
there  was  nothing  so  decorous  as  a  walk 
possible  down  the  slippery,  stony  descent 
which  led  to  the  haunts  of  the  pickerel. 
When  I  didn't  hurl  myself  down  that  hill, 
I  slid  down,  and  between  the  two  methods 
I  wrecked  both  musck  and  shoe  leather. 
The  latter  part  of  the  way  led  through  a 
pasture  devoted  to  several  cows  and  a  bull. 
As  I  am  more  afraid  of  the  latter  than  of 
death  and  all  his  cohorts,  my  morning  walks 
ended  in  heart  failures  and  had  to  be  aban- 

19 


290 


doned.  Occasionally  I  would  take  a  book 
and  go  out  and  sit  in  my  hammock.  Then 
the  large  roosters,  each  one  of  them  at  least 
seven  feet  tall  and  highly  ruffled  about  the 
legs,  would  come  around  and  look  at  me, 
so  that  I  would  have  to  go  into  the  house  to 
hide  my  embarrassment.  I  know  of  noth- 
ing harder  to  endure  than  the  stare  of  a 
Brahma  fowl,  especially  if  one  is  a  bit  nerv- 
ous and  overworked.  Nervous  prostration 
has  sprung  from  lighter  causes. 

Nothing  happened  while  I  was  at  the 
farm  but  meal  time,  and  the  intervals  were 
so  long  between  those  episodes  that  I  used  to 
wonder  daily  at  my  own  mission  subsequent 
to  the  farm-life  as  one  gropes  for  pre-his- 
toric  clues.  There  was  a  man  about  the 
premises  who  walked  to  and  from  the  vil- 
lage twice  a  day  with  a  large  brown  jug. 
When  I  asked  at  different  times  what  he 
fetched  in  the  jug,  not  because  I  wanted  to 
know,  but  merely  to  find  a  topic  of  conver- 
sation, I  was  successively  told  that  it  was 
"kerosene,"  "maple  molasses,"  "buttermilk," 
and  "vinegar."  I  wish  I  knew  if  I  was  told 
the  truth  every  time,  or  if  somebody  tried  to 
impose  upon  me  merely  because  I  was  town- 
bred. 


anfr      u**     291 


Occasionally  we  took  rides  over  stony 
trails  where  boulders  and  ruts  marked  the 
way,  and  only  the  creaking  of  our  bones 
broke  the  primeval  silence.  These  rides 
were  supposed  to  be  part  of  the  generous 
plan  of  contemplated  rest,  but  a  few  more  of 
them  would  have  resulted  in  the  rest  from 
which  there  is  no  awaking.  No,  my  dear,  I 
am  an  ardent  lover  of  the  country,  and  I 
love  it  as  the  epicure  loves  a  good  dinner,  or 
the  musician  loves  music,  but  I  will  take  it, 
please,  without  the  accessories  of  a  poorly- 
kept  hoosier  farm.  I  do  not  yearn  for  the 
defilements  of  a  barn-yard  that  is  never 
cleansed,  nor  for  the  frolicsomeness  of  pigs 
that  wander  at  their  own  sweet  will,  nor  for 
the  clamor  of  aggressively  alert  poultry,  nor 
for  piscatorial  delights.  I  love  the  country 
as  God  made  it  before  greed  and  gain  and 
all  the  abominations  of  man  entered  into 
and  spoiled  it.  I  love  it  clean  and  whole- 
some and  sweet,  as  it  was  turned  out  of  the 
workshop;  its  streams  untainted,  and  their 
banks  unbereft  of  beautiful  trees;  its  hills 
still  covered  with  verdure,  and  its  winds  un- 
contaminated  with  the  scent  of  defiling 
drains  and  waterways. 


292 


I  have  seen  him!  Actually  seen  him! 
Shall  I  say  the  coming  man?  No,  rather  let 
us  call  him  the  vanished  type,  the  stalwart, 
full-blooded,  glorious  "might  have  been"  of 
nature.  Not  an  exotic,  but  the  indigenous 
growth  of  a  soil  fed  by  breeze  and  sun.  No 
earmuffs  about  him;  no  cringing  with- 
drawal into  mufflers  before  the  advance  of 
winter  blasts.  No  cowardly  retreat  into 
furry  overcoats,  mittens  and  gum  shoes. 

"Amber,"  said  a  fellow  traveler  the  other 
day,  "yonder  is  a  man  after  your  own  heart. 
He  has  not  worn  an  overcoat  or  heavy- 
weight flannels  for  six  years.  He  never  but- 
tons up  his  coat  save  when  it  rains.  What 
do  you  think  of  him?" 

"Think  of  him !"  said  I ;  "were  it  not  for 
a  lingering  regard  for  the  conventionalities, 
I  should  walk  right  over  to  that  man  and 
say:  'Sir,  I  thank  you  for  the  sight  of  a  man 
— not  a  human  lily  bud!  You  have  struck 
the  right  way  of  living,  and  you  will  be  a 
hale  and  handsome  man  when  the  enfeebled 
race  that  surrounds  you  have  toddled  into 
the  consumptive's  grave  or  are  sneezing 


upon  their  catarrhal  pilgrimage  to  the 
tomb."  The  man  was  worth  looking  at,  hale 
and  hearty,  his  chest  like  the  convex  curve 
of  a  barrel,  his  eye  like  a  falcon's. 

"But,"  said  my  friend,  "were  I  to  throw 
aside  'my  overcoat  and  go  forth  unprotected 
this  freezing  weather,  the  exposure  would 
surely  kill  me!" 

"No  doubt  it  would,"  was  my  cheerful 
reply.  "There  are  always  a  host  to  die  be- 
fore any  reform  is  achieved  or  victory  ac- 
complished. You  have  coddled  yourself  so 
long  between  blankets  and  absorbed  red- 
hot  furnace  heat  until  you  haven't  the  stam- 
ina of  an  aspen  leaf.  Take  a  hot-house 
flower  out  of  doors  and  it  soon  wilts.  But 
mark  the  beautiful  Edelweiss  of  the  Alps — it 
thrives  in  the  pure  breath  of  eternal  snow." 
But  what  is  the  use  of  talking?  Although 
my  tongue  became  a  golden  bell  and  my 
pen  a  gleaming  flame,  I  could  never  con- 
vince you,  my  dear  old,  shivery,  shaky  pub- 
lic, of  the  advantage  of  fresh  air  and  plenty 
of  it,  and  the  advisability  of  a  generous  cul- 
tivation of  nature  and  her  free  gifts.  As 
well  expect  to  be  nourished  by  looking  at 
your  food  through  an  opera  glass  as  hope 
to  be  strong  and  stalwart  upon  a  homeo- 


294 


pathic  allowance  of  pure  air  and  sunshine, 
or  in  spite  of  the  devices  you  plan  to  shut 
yourself  away  and  hermetically  seal  your 
body,  as  it  were,  from  the  sweet,  health- 
giving  influence  of  sun  and  wind  and  frost. 
Just  stop  a  moment  before  you  turn  away 
from  this  subject,  my  dear,  and  hear  a  little 
story.  I  know  the  subject  is  a  bore  and  that 
I  am  a  crank,  but  listen.  Once  there  was  a 
grand  beneficent  power  —  call  it  God  if  you 
will  —  who  planned  a  spot  wherein  to  place 
some  atom  which  he  had  shaped  out  of  dust 
and  vivified  with  a  spark  of  his  own  life. 
He  looked  about  a  little,  we  will  imagine, 
and  finally  settled  upon  a  garden  wherein 
to  place  these  precious  pensioners  on  his 
care.  A  roofless,  wall-less  spot  full  of 
draughts  and  dew,  breezes  and  blossoms. 
He  filled  it  with  birds  and  carpeted  it  with 
grass,  set  rivulets  running  through  it  for 
"water  works"  and  sunbeams  and  starbeams 
for  "electric  light"  plants,  etc.  That  is  all 
I  have  to  say.  Like  the  Mother  Morey 
legend  'my  story  is  done  before  it  is  scarcely 
begun.  But  ask  yourself  the  question,  Why 
didn't  God  put  his  well-beloved  models  of 
the  forthcoming  race  into  a  more  sheltered 
place  if  there  was  so  much  danger  in  fresh 


295 


air,  draughts  and  chilly  weather?  Why 
didn't  he  seal  them  up  behind  double  win- 
dows in  an  airless,  sunless,  hot  and  unhealth- 
ful  home  where  the  dear  things  could  keep 
warm?  Because  he  was  God  and  knew 
everything,  and  not  man  and  knew  nothing. 


Well,  the  old  ship  Time  has  put  into  port 
again  to  take  on  a  new  cargo  of  good  reso- 
lutions, earnest  resolves  and  patented 
schemes,  before  setting  sail  for  the  shores 
of  a  distant  future.  Ten  to  one  she  goes  to 
pieces  on  the  breakers  before  ever  sighting 
land  again,  and  a  hundred  to  ninety-nine 
her  cargo  is  thrown  overboard  before  she 
reaches  mid-sea.  The  channel  is  narrow 
and  the  rocks  lie  thick  as  peas  in  a  marrow- 
fat pod,  and  many  more  bales  of  choice  mer- 
chandise find  the  bottom  of  the  sea  each 
year  than  are  ever  delivered  to  the  good 
angel  consignee.  "I  am  going  to  be  the  best 
girl  in  all  the  world,"  says  the  poor  little 
Captain  on  New  Year's  eve.  Behold!  the 
hours  have  not  swung  around  the  diurnal 
circle  before  there  is  a  wild  onslaught  from 
shadowland,  and  the  brave  captain  is  left 


296       jL0&8ntav#  cm** 


wounded  on  the  field.  Only  a  tender  hand 
and  tireless  patience  can  set  her  on  her  feet 
again. 

"I  will  eschew  debt  as  I  would  poison,  and 
starve  before  I  will  commit  an  indiscretion," 
cries  the  Doctor  as  he  sets  sail  for  the  untried 
sea.  Within  the  first  watch  he  hauls  down 
his  colors  from  the  mast  head,  captured  by 
a  pirate  extravagance. 

"I  will  be  gentle  of  speech  and  courteous 
and  sweet  to  all!"  says  the  Young  Person, 
and  gayly  steers  for  the  open  channel.  Mid- 
way she  encounters  a  rock  of  annoyance 
and  the  air  is  stormy  with  irritable  words 
that  fly  and  beat  like  stinging  rain.  Ah, 
well,  my  dear,  thank  the  good  Lord  there 
are  life-saving  stations  all  along  the  shore, 
and  no  wreck  was  ever  yet  so  hopeless  but 
Infinite  Love  could  set  it  afloat  again. 


"There  is  just  one  person  born  who  has  a 
right  to  this  thoroughfare,  and  that  is  I!" 
muses  the  woman  with  the  umbrella  as  she 
walks  the  crowded  streets  on  a  rainy  day. 
"I  am  in  possession  of  that  part  of  the  uni- 
verse immediately  contiguous  to  the  spot  on 


207 

which  I  stand,  and  I  shall  make  myself  just 
as  much  of  a  nuisance  as  I  choose.  I  shall 
jab  out  your  eyes,  and  knock  off  your  hat, 
and  clip  your  ears,  and  stab  your  back  with 
my  umbrella  tip  just  as  often  and  as  vio- 
lently as  I  choose.  I  shall  run  into  you  from 
behind,  and  bump  into  you,  and  knock  you 
down  if  I  so  desire,  and  none  shall  say  me 
nay.  I  am  not  very  tall,  but  all  the  better 
for  my  plans  if  I  am  not.  If  I  were  of  the 
same  height  as  you  I  should  not  be  able  to 
take  you  under  the  hat-brim  as  I  do,  and 
jab  you  in  the  nostril  as  I  pass.  If  I  choose 
to  cut  criss-cross  through  a  crowd,  who  shall 
forbid  me,  being  a  woman?  I  can  be  just 
as  rude  and  just  as  mean  as  I  want  to  be, 
and  who  is  going  to  hinder,  so  long  as  I 
wear  a  gown  and  call  myself  a  lady?  If  I 
were  a  man  and  manifested  the  reckless 
thirst  for  universal  carnage  that  I  do  you 
would  call  the  patrol  and  bear  me  away  to 
the  lock-up ;  but  being  a  poor  little,  innocent 
woman  I  have  it  all  my  own  way." 


I  know  a  wife  who  is  waiting,  safe  and 
sound  in  her  father's  home,  for  her  young 


298 

husband  to  earn  the  money  single-handed 
to  make  a  home  worthy  of  her  acceptance. 
She  makes  ime  think  of  the  first  mate  of  a 
ship  who  should  stay  on  shore  until  the 
captain  tested  the  ability  of  his  vessel  to 
weather  the  storm.  Back  to  your  ship,  you 
cowardly  one!  If  the  boat  goes  down,  go 
down  with  it,  but  do  not  count  yourself 
worthy  of  any  fair  weather  you  did  not  help 
to  gain!  A  woman  who  will  do  all  she  can 
to  win  a  man's  love  merely  for  the  profit  his 
purse  is  going  to  be  to  her,  and  will  desert 
him  when  the  cash  runs  low,  is  a  bad  woman 
and  carries  a  bad  heart  in  her  bosom.  Why, 
you  are  never  really  wedded  until  you  have 
had  dark  days  together.  What  earthly  pur- 
pose would  a  cable  serve  that  never  was 
tested  by  a  weight?  Of  what  use  is  the  tie 
that  binds  wedded  hearts  together  if  like  a 
filament  of  floss  it  parts  when  the  strain  is 
brought  to  bear  upon  it?  It  is  not  when  you 
are  young,  my  dear,  when  the  skies  are  blue 
and  every  wayside  weed  flaunts  a  summer 
blossom,  that  the  story  of  your  life  is  record- 
ed. It  is  when  "Darby  and  Joan"  are  faded 
and  wasted  and  old,  when  poverty  has 
nipped  the  roses,  when  trouble  and  want  and 
care  have  flown  like  uncanny  birds  over 


their  heads  (but  never  yet  nested  in  their 
hearts,  thank  God!),  that  the  completed 
chronicle  of  their  lives  furnishes  the  record 
over  which  approving  heaven  smiles  and 
weeps. 


There  is  one  thing  I  learn  day  by  day  in 
my  strollings  about  town,  and  that  is  that 
nobody  is  going  to  give  me  dollar  values  for 
half-dollar  equivalents.  In  these  days  when 
the  best  of  folks  go  mad  on  bargains  we 
seem  to  think  it  is  an  easy  thing  to  get  some- 
thing for  nothing,  but  I  have  yet  to  see  the 
day  when  we  can.  There  are  cheap  restau- 
rants where  they  serve  you  roast  turkey  for 
a  quarter,  but  don't  fool  yourself!  It  is  not 
the  same  kind  of  bird  they  serve  in  a  high- 
class  place  for  a  dollar.  You  look  at  your 
check  when  you  come  out  from  an  eco- 
nomical kitchen  with  a  feeling  of  glee  that 
you  have  got  so  much  for  so  little.  But  how 
about  the  flavor  that  lingers  in  your  mouth? 
How  about  the  display  of  pine  toothpicks 
and  spotted  linen?  How  about  the  finger- 
marked drinking  glasses  and  damp  napkins? 
No,  no;  poor  as  I  am  I  would  rather  pay 


300       frwremary  anfr 


my  dollar  and  get  a  dollar's  worth  of  clean- 
liness and  daintiness  and  flavor  than  save 
seventy-five  cents  and  do  without  them. 
Sure  as  you  live  and  sure  as  the  world  is 
operated  on  a  self-accommodative  basis,  you 
never  will  get  a  first-water  diamond  with- 
out you  pay  first-  water  diamond  equivalents. 


The  other  day  there  was  a  little  girl,  scarce 
1 6  years  of  age,  who  started  away  for  the 
first  time  from  home  and  mother.  She  was 
brave  and  gay  in  a  new  suit,  new  boots  and 
a  new  hat  with  a  feather  the  color  of  a  lin- 
net's wing.  She  carried  a  bunch  of  the  love- 
liest sweet  peas  at  her  dainty  waist  and  on 
her  face  there  played  a  sunburst  of  smiles. 
She  had  not  been  five  hours  in  the  place 
appointed  her  to  visit  when  her  mother  re- 
ceived the  following  letter: 

"My  Precious  Mamma :  I  am  writing  this 
in  my  room  before  I  am  called  to  breakfast. 
None  but  God  can  know  what  I  suffer!  Not 
until  I  am  in  your  arms  once  more  will  you 
know  what  I  am  going  through!  If  you 
love  me  let  me  come  home.  Don't  tell  any- 
one, but  let  me  come  if  you  love  me !  Don't 


301 

send  the  shoes — I  shall  not  need  them — 
but  let  me  come  home!  Think  what  I  must 
suffer  so  far  away  from  you.  I  shall  sell  my 
ring  and  buy  a  ticket  if  you  do  not  telegraph 
that  I  may  come !" 

And  as  I  read  the  pathetic  letter  between 
my  smiles  and  tears  I  thought  to  myself,  is 
there  anything  on  earth  so  hard  to  bear  as 
homesickness — first  homesickness,  when  the 
heart  is  new  to  sorrow?  I  would  rather  have 
any  disease  the  laboratory  of  evil  keeps  in 
stock  than  one  pang  of  what  that  little  girl 
was  suffering  when  she  penciled  that  letter. 


Around  in  a  picture  store  on  one  of  the 
avenues  I  chanced  upon  a  painting  that  at- 
tracted not  only  myself,  but  a  crowd  of 
people  from  the  street.  It  represented  a 
lion's  cage  barred  with  heavy  barriers  of 
iron.  On  the  floor  of  the  den  is  the  figure  of 
a  beautiful  girl  stretched  in  a  deathlike 
swoon.  There  are  orange  blossoms  in  her 
hair,  and  the  flush  on  her  cheek  has  had  no 
time  to  fade.  Crouched  by  her  side,  one 
great  paw  on  her  breast  and  another  at  her 
waist,  is  a  wrathful  lion  whose  evident  in- 


302 


tention  is  to  tear  his  victim  into  bonbon 
fragments.  I  wish  somebody  would  ex- 
plain that  picture  to  me.  I  am  tired  con- 
jecturing how  the  bride  strayed  into  the 
lion's  quarters,  and  where  her  husband  was 
that  he  shouldn't  be  taking  better  care  of 
her,  and  why  there  was  nobody  on  hand  to 
help  at  this  critical  moment  portrayed  on  the 
canvas.  Young  married  women  are  not 
supposed  to  be  visiting  zoological  gardens 
when  they  ought  to  be  changing  their  white 
satin  favors  for  their  traveling  gowns.  The 
picture  seems  a  puzzler  to  all  who  watch  it, 
and  as  the  crowd  is  great  the  confusion  of 
wits  is  catching. 


THE  TRYST. 

Where  a  woodland  path,  like  a  silver  line, 

Winds  by  a  woodland  river, 
And  half  in  shadow,  and  half  in  shine, 

The  alders  lean  and  shiver, 
Where  a  forest  bird  has  built  him  a  nest 

Low  in  the  springing  grasses, 
And  all  the  day  long,  with  her  wings  at  rest, 

His  mate  the  slow  time  passes; 

Where  a  flood  of  gold  through  the  forest  dim 
Tells  when  the  noon  is  strongest, 


303 

And  a  purple  fringe  on  the  forest's  rim 
Proclaims  when  the  shades  are  longest; 

Where  the  dawn  is  only  known  from  the  night 
By  the  birds  that  sing  their  sweetest, 

And  the  twilight  hush  from  the  morning  light 
By  the  peace  that  is  then  completest; 

Where  only  the  flood  of  silvery  haze 

Shall  tell  that  the  moon  is  risen, 
When  down  from  the  sky,  like  a  meteor  blaze, 

Shall   flutter  her  snow-white   ribbon, — 
I  will  meet  you  there,  my  lady  love  sweet, 

When  the  weary  world  is  sleeping, 
And  the  frets  of  the  day,  that  tireless  beat, 

Are  hushed  in  the  night's  close  keeping; 

Not    missing    the    world — by    the    world    un-« 
missed — 

We  two  shall  wander  together, 
And  whether  we  chided,  or  whether  we  kissed, 

There'll  be  none  to  forget  or  remember; 
And  when  at  the  last  asleep  you  shall  fall, 

By  the  shore  of  the  musical  river, 
Of  the  crimson  leaves  I  will  weave  you  a  pall, 

And  kiss  you  good-by,  love,  forever. 

But  the  stars  up  above,  and  the  waters  below, 

Shall  sing  of  us,  over  and  over; 
Of  the  tryst  that  we  kept  in  the  years  long  ago, 

In  the  woods  by  the  beautiful  river. 


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